Well, I ain’t no Ma Kettle…

Hi there guys and dolls! Hope you all had a fine weekend. I had an educational experience, you might say. I have discovered that I am not just urbane, I’m very urban, as well. Let me fill you in.

Thursday afternoon I met this wonderful man at the market. As we were both squeezing the tomatoes, we struck up a conversation (well, actually, I kept asking him questions about their freshness, firmness, etc until it was just rude for him not to reply). Rugged, good looking sort of fellow; tall, dark, robust with this fine, slow drawl. A real fine hunk of male pulchritude, to be honest. As it turns out, it was more ‘poultritude.’ You see, he was a chicken wrangler on his parent’s farm.

Gallant Derek!

Well, how do! Wouldn’t you know I was just dying for a day out in the country? Okay, not really, but a day out with him would be the fresh air I was craving. After we had fondled our way through the fruits and vegetables and he was helping me out to my car after gallantly paying for my groceries (natch), I had secured plans for a Saturday down home on the farm!

I got up with the dawn (fine, it was eight o’clock, but who’s counting) and drove out to the valley, away from the smog and traffic. Immediately, I felt my lungs hurt. What was this stuff? It smelled so green, not a bit ashy or comforting, but cold and fresh. That didn’t feel right. I quickly lit a cigarette and that made it all better. Now I could conquer the great outdoors.

Derek (that’s the wrangler) told me to wear sturdy shoes and good farm clothes. I wasn’t sure what exactly that meant. I certainly wasn’t going to show up in dungarees or work shirts. Who’s kidding who? I’m on a date! White ballerina flats and a cotton gingham dress would have to do.

By the time I had arrived, the farm was in full swing. There were farm hands running around, chasing hogs and carrying milk pails, buckets of some rather foul stuff, and other things I don’t even understand all over the place. And noisy? Tractors and roosters blaring, the occasional snort and braying all over the place. And where was my man? Nowhere to be seen.

Now, I’m an independent woman, I don’t mind opening my own car door, if you know what I mean. That’s okay, I’ll find him myself. I stepped out of the car, my new white shoe sliding into a fresh cow pie. I was steaming as much as it was, but realizing where I was, I jauntily laughed it off, being the good sport I am. Wiping off my shoe with a rag I handily had in my car I continued on to the barn, this time watching my step instead of watching to see who was watching my walk, no mean feat given that there were so many strapping males running around the place ;-).

Derek with his catch

The barn was pure pandemonium. Squawking and feathers flying everywhere, yelling and flapping, grown men, crouched low, waiting to pounce. In a weird way, it was quite an enjoyable scene, all that animal behavior all around. Then I saw Derek, literally birds in hand, grinning wildly. I was love-struck by his shear dazzlement!

Then literally struck. One of those annoying flappy things made a beeline right for my head, claws getting stuck in my hair, trying to dismantle my careful updo! I ran around in a panicked circle, trying to get it off me. Then I felt a right tackle and down I went, heels over head in some not so clean hay.

This is enough wild life for me!

You know, farm life is not for me. No matter how wonderful Nature Boy Derek may be, he’s not for me. After I got the bird out of my brain and the hayseeds out of my dress, I rapidly said my good-byes and had a charming evening at home, content with my rather domestic form of animal life.

Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more posts. And don’t forget to give my Poppy Cove Mysteries a try if you haven’t already.

Toodles, Barbara Jean

About Barbara Jean Coast

Barbara Jean Coast is the pen name of authors Andrea Taylor and Heather Shkuratoff. She is currently hard at work telling the cozy tales of the fictional town of Santa Lucia, loosely based on Santa Barbara in the late 50's, early 60's, known as The Poppy Cove Mysteries.
This entry was posted in 1950's fun, 1950's, 1950s fun, 50's Slang, Alter Ego, blogaday, Cats, Characters, Conversation, creative writing, Creativity, daily blog, Dating, diary, Domestic life, family life, farm life, farming, Fiction, Fictional Characters, flash fiction, Historical, historical fiction, home life, Humor, journal, Nostalgia, Perspective, Pop Culture, postaday, road trip, Romance, Shopping, slang, Social Mores, Socializing, stories, Uncategorized, Vintage, Writing, Writing Ideas and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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