Beaulah Delaney

Beaulah Delaney had buried two husbands and an only son and child killed in one of the undeclared American wars.

Delaney was her proper, ancestral name. But after the death of her second husband she concluded it time to reclaim the identity. “They didn’t outlast me,” she reasoned about the men in her life. “I outlasted them. And their money.”

Beaulah Delaney was nobody’s fool.

She was raised hard. And lived hard. There was no assuming her friendship or business, especially if you had a penis. And those who did and mistakenly called her “Bea” without invitation or consent, and with a familiarity she particularly resented, felt her immediate venom.

“You call me that again and the only bee you’ll know is the one I’ll shove up your ass with my foot. The name is Beaulah.” But she didn’t end there. Didn’t let them off the hook. “Say it,” she calmly demanded unapologetically. And when they gave in and pronounced it, she goaded them even more. “Now spell it” Of course, they usually couldn’t and so she warned, “Don’t say what you can’t spell.” Followed by her favorite life’s maxim, “And don’t think what you don’t know.”

Beaulah was her great-great-great grandmother’s name and, with her husband Zebadiah, started the very farm Beaulah never left. Her partiality to this relative was obvious. “She lived to be 102. A miracle in those days. Worked her ass off on this land because back then work was all you had if you wanted to survive and you were grateful to have it. Never even left the county. Minded her own business. Gave to the poor when needed. Saved her money literally penny by penny. I still have her old account books with notes penciled in. She helped make this town,” she was quick to inform and educate people, especially developers and real estate people who salivated over her land complete with pond, hills, woods, fields and orchards. “But that’s a whole ‘nother story.”

What Beaulah lacked in female graces she made up for in sturdy stock and work. And a healthy complexion that was its own makeup. Her hands were strong, fingernails bereft of polish. And she could flex a bicep. In school she could throw a football and bat a ball. Even excelled in home economics. Boys liked her for who she was. And when Amy McPherson, pert and pretty, chided boys that the only reason they liked her was because “Beaulah blew ya,” she didn’t waste any time. Waited for Amy after school and jumped her easily. Got her in a headlock until she squirmed and cried like a roped calf. “You let go of me! I’ll tell my parents and the cops will come after you! There is something wrong with you, Beaulah Delaney. You’re not a girl at all!” Beaulah squeezed the pretty head like a nut in a metal vise.

“I hear you or any of your snotty friends say anything dirty and nasty like that about me or one of my friends and you’ll feel something worse than this. Understand?” And she swung her round locking and pinning her arm behind her back pulling and threatening to break it. “I said ‘Do. You. Understand?’” Amy cried out.

“I still don’t hear nothin’,” Beaulah chided. When Amy give in, Beaulah grabbed a handful of hair. “And the only person any cop is going to arrest is you telling lies not just about me but others, too.”

In her senior year, Amy McPherson got pregnant and had to drop out of school. Beaulah was indifferent. Said nothing. She didn’t have to.

Chicken

Beaulah closed down the farm and went out West to a working ranch she and her husband had talked about visiting. There, she rode horses again. Played tourist and went sightseeing. The strangeness of the landscape soothed her barrenness. Cactus and rocks. Sunsets the color of pain. She met a retired military man whose own wife had died. Took friendly walks and hikes.

When she returned home, she called her favorite dealers and began to sell off the contents of the warehouse. Without her husband, there was no point keeping the business going. It was no longer fun. Or easy.

Instead, she reinvented the farm. Returned to its roots. Put in her order for a variety of chicks at the feed elevator and reconnected with old friends. She needed company and chickens would be it. Built new state-of-the-art coops with newly-poured concrete floors. Drilled a new well to make for easy cleaning. Electrified the whole thing.

She bought an heirloom milking cow and a horse. Cleaned out stalls that hadn’t been used in decades. Mended fences. And herself. She made homemade cheeses with fresh herbs and real butter the way she remembered her ancestors had done. Only now they were called "artisan."

She tapped into the organic craze. Farmers' markets and local restaurants. She was all the rage. And it made her richer.

“Chickens have been my friends and companions all my life,” she told people. “With a flock of chickens you’ll never go hungry. Don’t take up much space and don’t eat much food.

“Did you know the word ‘chicken’ ain't even mentioned in the whole Bible? Not once. And I mean it. We’d all of been a sight better off if it were the blood of the chicken and not of a lamb. A whole lot less fighting.

“It’s chickens and cows that settled this country, ya know. There’s no arguing against that. Now you take that Middle East, that’s the whole problem. It was always goats and sheep in those Bible times. Always slaughtering and sacrificing. All blood and sloshing around in it and painting it over doors, just like it still is. Had to keep moving and living in tents and caves to keep them fed on good grazing land. No one ever settled down there. Didn’t put down no roots. No crops. No one ever claimed their little piece of land to call home like they did here. No little houses on the prairie or in the woods. There was never time to get civ'lized. It was all nomads. A flock of chickens will teach you how to be civ'lized. To stay put.”

Sometimes one never knew if Beaulah was serious or pulling one’s leg. Either way, one always felt a sense of satisfaction after one of her sermons.

“Oh, cattle ain’t got nothing over chickens. Cattle fart Methane. That’s why the North Pole is melting. And then all those manure piles. It’s that gas that destroys the ozone that protects our planet. Chicken shit is only a fraction of what cows and pigs put out and it’s one of the best organic fertilizers you can use.

“And then you have to grow all that corn and soybeans to feed cattle. Chemical fertilizers and insecticides and pumping water out of the ground unnaturally to water all those fields. Herds have always destroyed the earth and been a nuisance for farmer and non-farmer alike. It's why we killed all the Indians.

“Pound for pound, chicken is the way to go. It only takes two pounds of grain to get one pound of chicken. Guess how many pounds to get one measly pound of steak? Six! For a pig, it’s three.

“Let ‘em free range and they’re eating seeds and bugs already put there by God Almighty Himself. And the eggs are better, too, that way. Less cholest'rol and more of what they call Omega that’s good for your heart. 'I am the Alpha and the Omega.' You can read that right in the Bible.

“Why, just eight laying hens will give you well over one-thousand eggs in a year! Without eggs there ain't no such thing as baking, like cakes. Or breakfast. No French toast or Eggs Benedict. No fancy French sauces.

"I love my girls. It’s the hens that're important. Not the roosters. And that’s why 'chicken' ain’t in the Bible. The only thing close is that rooster that crowed when Judas turned on Jesus to betray Him. Ain't that interestin'? Males killing males like most of history. That book was written by old men with gray beards. If a woman wrote it, there’d be chickens and civ'lization. Jesus would have lived a whole lot longer. And happier. You can have all the religion you want. But without civ'lization, it don’t mean shit. And you don’t need no COCK for that.”

Nathan

They were townies.

The Walker family had lived in the same town as Edna and Beaulah for generations. They pursued the security of city jobs. Clerks and council people. Municipalities. Public works. Their tenure gave them precedent. And stature. His mother taught third grade at the local school the same as her mother before her. His father worked at the post office. Jobs with benefits and pensions. Predictable. And safe.

He was the child never expected to have been born. Arrived in the world to middle-aged parents on the verge of adopting. A miracle baby.

The boy-next door. Perfect white teeth with grades to match. Square shoulders and a shock of unruly, endearing black hair that never stayed in place. Piercing gray eyes that verged on violet. His parents pushed him towards excellence. Showed him off unabashedly. He dominated at non-contact sports. Swimming. Track. Tennis. Golf. A favored team player. Loved the out-of-doors where his easy and natural tan lasted well into winter. Never suffered a broken bone.

A broken-heart--a distant, hidden secret.

In the summers, he was expected to pull his own weight. Shore up his bank account. Lawn and yard work. De-tassel corn. Heave grass-dusty, sun-warmed hay bales, the tawny, golden color of lions, onto wagons in the stifling August heat along with friends who exaggerated male prowess and flexed biceps from shirtless torsos.

His best friend was Beaulah’s son, Seth Ennis. Inseparable. Brothers. Seth his opposite, all sandy-haired and sun-burnt in the summers. Shy. Awkward at sports although he participated with his parent's support and encouragement. Cheering from the bleachers. Their initials were the same as those on any compass: N,W,S,E. “With each other, we can never get lost,” they laughed. An unspoken connection. And direction.

Nathan attended the state university on sport scholarships along with Seth. Roommates. Tried different majors but ended up in education like his mother where he eventually taught junior high social studies and English and coached teams after school. Familiar turf. His disappointed father favored business and insurance. “You’re a natural. It’s not too late. Be your own boss, son. We have the connections. Think about it.”

The college years were difficult. His first time away from home. Mixing with city kids and temptations. Living in a dorm. Seth never went back after his freshman year. It was in Nathan’s junior year that Seth was killed in the war. His grades fell and he floundered precariously. Darkly. Drank at frat parties. Talked dirty. Even smoked. Woke in the mornings reeking of vomit and god knows what else.

Nathan was one of the few people to whom Beaulah gave free reign of her land. The summer after her son’s death, he spent hours alone in the hayloft. She often spied him walking the trails dragging and whipping the air with a stick. Sometimes standing in front of her son’s grave, head bowed. Compass in hand. She let him be. Never pried.

The Dirt Beneath Your Feet

They arrived in the mail unannounced. Offers from real-estate agents and developers. Pleads for appointments. Everything around her was giving way. Sell. Sell. Sell.

Her property was a jewel. At odd times she’d spy them circling like turkey vultures. Fancy cars. Arms and hands flailing this way and that. The more audacious ignored the no trespassing signs and climbed the fences. Some even had maps. Took snap shots. And she shot back over their heads with her trusty .22. Laughed out loud when they scrambled back into their cars like scaredy cats and sped away, muttering under their breath ‘crazy old bitch’ nervously checking in the rear-view mirror just to make sure.

“Now Beaulah,” the sheriff tried to reason, “we’ve been through this a hundred times. You can’t just point a rifle at someone and pull the trigger.”

“Jeb, it says as plain as the nose on your ugly face, NO TRESPASSING. It’s my land. You know I raise chickens. Got to protect ‘em from hawks and varmits, don’t I? Is it my fault some busybody’s around my land when I’m doing the protectin’?”

“Can’t you just meet with them? You could make a lot of money. Take it easy and retire.”

“Retire? When I’m dead and buried is retiring enough. And if any of those scoundrels sent you here to soften me up, you tell ‘em all to go to hell and keep off my land. I got generations buried right here. I don’t need no greedy city folk keeping ‘em comp’ny. I got a right to my land and my privacy. That’s the only law you need to be protectin’.”


But when her own long-lost brother arrived as unannounced as real-estate bids, skulking the property, she knew it was serious. He knew land values. Had been contacted by the very same developers. Had dollar signs in his eyes. An easy life all planned out.

“Who the hell are you comin’ here with your hand out like you own the place? What have you ever done on this farm but complain about it and leave as soon as the gettin’ was good? In fact, as far as I’m concerned, you ain’t no kin of mine and got no right to one clod of dirt from this place and that includes being buried on it.

“Where were you when you when my husbands died? Where were you when I lost my only son? You, his uncle who never even sent a birthday card. You signed out of this family a long time ago and I’ll be damned before I sign on any dotted line to give it away to you or anyone else!”

He stared at her, speechless. Dumbfounded. Had forgotten the venom of her wrath.

“What have you ever done to make this place work? Tell me? Ain’t ever lifted one little finger. You ain’t ever invested one penny in it. It’s my money that made it grow when most other farms are going under. I’m the one who made it work. I’m the one who paid the taxes. My blood and sweat that kept it goin’. You should be ‘shamed of yourself even settin’ foot on it. But it’s no surprise. Spineless and lazy like half the greedy country.”

He found his nerve and shot back, “Blood is thicker than water, Bea. And I got rights. Family and birth rights.”

“You ain’t got shit!”

Barn

A barn’s mystery is greater than any church or cathedral. It rises from the very dirt, sweat and stench it provides and then relies upon for its own survival.

A barn, more importantly an old barn, one with wooden sides and sagging doors, a foundation of fieldstone collected by family and hired help and piled through seasons of tilling, sometimes cemented, sometimes not, a dirt floor compacted and transformed harder than concrete from generations of human boots, wheels of machinery and wagons, spit, the hoof of beast, is at once a place of home. Generations of dust and mud and harvest.

Seconds after you enter its shadowy interior, your vision is forced to readjust. The senses peak. Even if it no longer boards livestock there is always movement—scurrying cats, ubiquitous to any farm. Restless swallows in mud nests. A stray chicken. If the farm is lucky, owls roost in the loft to feed off mice and rats and snakes that feed off grain. And each other. Somewhere in the shadows, bats shudder upside down from rafters.

An old barn was definitely improvisation. Not architecture or technology. Tin-can lids tacked over knotholes. The best, wallpapered with the yearly lineage of license plates. Leather tackle gone dry and stiff. Hinges were makeshift things of old tires. Doors, scraps of wood zig-zagged together with rusty nails. Windows rarely opened, draped in the dusty gauze of spider webs. Dried black-bottle flies peppered the sills like burnt popcorn. And when a pane cracked or broke, a discarded panel of wood, even cardboard, most often replaced it.

“Barns are really all about shit,” Beulah Delaney surmised in her matter-of-fact-from-experience kind of way. Cow shit. Horse shit. Pig shit. Chicken shit. Sheep shit. A big fuckin’ outhouse for animals. Even people. No woman wants no man with clumped-up muddy boots and filthy hands walking into her clean house to do his business. You keep the hay in the loft and throw it down to muck up shit. Just like toilet paper.

“‘Course, the newer barns are pole barns. ‘Lectrified from the start. A lot have poured concrete floors for easy cleaning. Indoor plumbing from the get-go. The works. Nowdays it’s rare to have a hayloft and in some places even illegal ‘cause of insurance purposes. Easy kindling for lightning strikes. Many a barn has been burnt to the ground because of unlucky strikes. More and more have tin roofs.

“Hay don’t come in bales anyway now’days. It’s rolled then tarped over for easy storage outside.

“Walk into one of these new pole barns and it just don’t feel natural. Has the feel of enterprise and big business. They even have fans the size of jet engines to keep out dust and air-rated and all.

“We got us a good one as far as barns go. One of the oldest ‘round. Kept the roof repaired, the downfall of any barn if it leaks. Kept it painted. Most folks don’t bother no more. A real expense. And then the newer ones are all metal on the outside anyway and don’t need no upkeep. Our doors are oiled and tight-sealed. Tried not to fill it with a lot of junk the way some people do. Old washing machines and garbage. Just invites critters you don’t want.”


But a barn is also the cave and urge of our primal unconsciousness. The loft, a denizen of adolescent lewdness and liquor. Often, the first stir of sexual desire. And touch. Dirty magazines stashed beneath hay bales and pints of cheap liquor to lessen the anxiety. Or the victim’s.

The rafters, a secret, coded genealogy of carved initials connected by the DNA of inscribed hearts and +’s.

Boys often tried to coax and to seduce Beulah up the rafter ladder, the rungs worn from the heavy indent of workboots. But she’d have none of it. “I’m not some animal!” she chastised. “But you go up and have all the fun you want by yourself. I hear your real good at that!”

At most, they’d swing on the rope and maybe kiss. Her large breasts a constant lure. She slapped their hands, sometimes even bit them, and pushed them away. “Nasty!” she yelled when they tried a grope. Some begged, “Aw, c’mon Beaulah, just let me see ‘em, please! I won’t tell anyone, honest.” But she pushed them away. “They ain’t called privates for nothin'."