Part 2                                                                                

                             

                    During the next few days, I worked out a plan where I would be able to afford Abe’s mares, if I could only talk him down a little in price.  After work one afternoon, I sped quickly down the highway and turned down the gravel road leading to the 1800s again.  I parked my truck, awkwardly near the hitching post and rolled out, back in time.  On this visit, I only talked to Virgil.  I found him out in the barn.  It was milking time and large black-and-white Holsteins, each in a stanchion, waited patiently to be milked.  I drew in the sweet smell of hay and cows; Michael was milking and told me where to find Virgil.
Only too happy to show me the horses again, Virgil slid open a large door and the line of big black horses clomped into their stalls and calmly let the young man put on their halters and tie them.  I asked if we could take the two mares I was thinking about buying, outside, so I could see them in full daylight...

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If you already read part 1, scroll down to part 2

Part 3 will be added 6/26

Short Story

                               

                            In a small, gray S-10 Pickup, hustling down gravel roads over Iowa’s rolling hills, I had one of my experiences with time travel.  In a cloud of dust, I crossed a time warp and found myself somewhere in the late 1800s.  Stumbling out of my little truck, I headed toward a large, white barn.  I looked for signs of life inside.  Some voices could be heard coming from within, and I followed the sound until I found a young man and woman having a conversation.  The woman stood there, barefoot, with a long, plain, green dress, playing with her apron strings.  The man had his thumbs under his suspenders, his face hidden by a straw hat.  Unnoticed, I listened for a moment, and couldn't make out a word they were saying.  They spoke in a foreign tongue, but their conversation seemed quite pleasant, as laughter filled the air.
  Suddenly, they saw me and the room fell silent.  They looked me up and down, as if I were some kind of alien.  “Is your dad around?” I asked.  “He’s up at the house.” The young man answered in broken English.  I left them behind, heading up toward a very large, white farm house.  Everything seemed familiar; I knew I had been here, on an earlier voyage, but didn't know if those living here remembered  me.  Passing under spinning shadows of a windmill that clattered rhythmically...

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Rats on a Plate and the Smell of Fresh Manure

 

Large white farm houses tucked in rolling hills lined with gravel roads and sided by freshly tilled black earth. Clotheslines lined in multiple sizes of black tights and white underwear. Horses, sheep, calves and chickens, a poor little cat that never made it across the road. A store clerk oblivious to the fact that she lives a mile away from debit cards and scanners, carefully reading each hand ticketed item before ringing into the 10 key calculator, printing out a narrow tape with 1.65, .45x8… Rows of healthy plants, crops of young women in pastels, bonnets and bare feet carefully arranging flats of flowers. A neatly folded white paper sack, 4 large pastries tucked inside. A pair of little boys safely buckled in car seats with 9 toy rats squished strategically between their tiny fingers ride up behind an Amish boy and his dad, both wearing straw hats, bouncing along on an open cart behind a quick trotting horse. The mix of strong manure-spreading scent lingering on clothing with a hint of sweet-smelling car-heated petunias.  Right before I pulled out of the lane onto the pavement that leads home I gave my mom a big hug, apologizing for coming out for her birthday and then having her drive me around the dusty countryside, spotting me 5 bucks for the plants and buying the treats. I turned to her as I laughed at my littlest using a new method for transporting his new rubber Amish-bought toy rats on a paper plate, that’s it!” I said,” today’s post is going to be called ‘Rats on a plate and the smell of fresh manure'.”

-Robyn (Nye) Rasmussen