The Camels of Misfit Farm Chapter 2

The pasture behind the barn was ten acres of rolling green vegetation surrounded by new barbed wire and fenceposts splashed with no-trespassing-purple paint. At the foot of Tester Mountain, the fence marked the border between the farm and Art Loeb National Forest, where granite outcroppings and wild rhododendrons overlooked the Chinquapin River. It was not a simple, flat pasture, rather a wild meadow dotted with large grey rocks, random young trees, and patches of milkweed and nettles among the grasses. It was unsuitable for hay but okay for grazing.

It had taken over an hour to locate the escapees. The frightened creatures huddled in a small hollow in the corner of the field furthest from the river. Surrounded by prickly hawthorn bushes, it was a perfectly secluded spot.

"What now?" Joey asked as he plopped down onto a knee-high rock, wiping the sweat from his face. "We have them cornered, sort of, but I am afraid of how the big guy will react if we get closer. "

"I don't know." Maura gasped as she flopped down beside him.

They had just begun to breathe normally when Howard and Bobby burst through a tangle of bushes.

"Miss Maura! Are ya'll okay? Is everything all right?"

"Ooooooooh!" he broke through the thorny branches into the clearing. "Camels," he whispered, "Them's real camels!"

"Joey told me they were cows." Maura rolled her eyes and play-punched Joey's shoulder.

"Yep, real camels, not cows." Joey replied, "They ate up the truck patch, and now we need to catch them." He mock-glared at Maura and massaged his shoulder.

Bobby smiled and shrugged, "Oh, that's no problem." He strolled closer to the skittish creatures and began to sing a lullaby in a beautiful tenor voice.

"Hey, pretty camels, " he sang softly, swaying back and forth in time to his music, "Hey, pretty camels. Are you hungry? Are you lonely? Come with me, come with me." He continued to sing as he stepped closer. They lifted their heads and began to sway in time with his movements. Eventually, they allowed him to rub their muzzles and stroke their necks. "Follow me," he crooned, "Follow me. Pretty camels, sweet babies. Let's take you home where you will be warm. We have good food. Sweet friends, pretty camels, come along, come along."

"What the hell?" Joey frowned at Maura.

"I don't know," she shrugged, "I have heard him singing hymns to the goats and chickens, but this is new."

Continuing to sing rhythmic nonsense, Bobby led two frightened camels, a mutt puppy learning to herd livestock, and the mystified adults back to the barn.

Maura met Bobby three years ago when he had a seizure in a thrift store. She stepped in to help when the terrified owner did not know what to do. As he recovered, they called his mother, who came to take her dazed son home.

"He does this once in a while," Ella had said, "It's been a long time since the last one. He must have run out of medicine again."

The next day Maura stopped by their home to see how they were. Over an impromptu lunch of tuna salad sandwiches and sweet tea, she learned that Ella called Bobby her "million dollar baby" because of his very premature birth and extended time in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. He was a surprise midlife child, and Ella had never carried a pregnancy to term.

"That was thirty-two years ago," she said. "Bobby has always been quirky, but he is a good boy. He didn't like school, but he works hard. He is a special person."

Maura hired him to help on the farm after extracting a solemn promise that he would tell her if he needed help buying his medications. After an emotional solo cross-country drive back to Carson County from California she was overwhelmed by culture shock, and saddened by the deterioration of the only place she had ever considered to be her true home.

Bobby loved animals. He rescued assorted chickens from inexperienced newcomers who, after moving to the country from cities, discovered that chickens were not as charming as social media portrayed them. The four dairy goats came from a neighbor's farm after their owner had died. The nannies had presented her with three kids shortly after their arrival, and the billy was very mild-mannered as far as breeding male goats go. Howard had been abandoned in the Walmart parking lot.

Intending to sell produce at the weekend flea market on the other side of Greenfield, she and Bobby had planted the large vegetable garden a hundred yards behind the house. Thanks to Bobby's efforts, there was rarely a weed among the tidy plots.

Ella and Tom, Bobby's parents, presided over their booth at the "trade lot" where people gathered on Saturdays to sell, swap, and barter goods. It was a sad surprise when so many folks from Carson County did not know what eggplants were and had never eaten one. Blue-green eggs from the Araucana hens prompted puzzled comments and questions. They soon developed a reputation for "weird food". Ella began providing recipes for their customers. Tom researched vegetable varieties and chicken breeds. He enjoyed educating curious browsers but was shrewd enough to direct them to more familiar food if they were not interested in trying something different.

Maura's savings were shrinking. Installing satellite internet and making the old house liveable had taken a considerable chunk out of her account. Her cousins had treated the place as a rustic weekend retreat and had not done much to maintain it, spending their time fishing and kayaking on the river during the summer and ignoring the farm during the winter. She purchased the farm from them sight unseen, packed her car, and hurried eastward as soon as Fed-Ex delivered the final closing documents and the keys.

The farmhouse was built from a Sears and Roebuck kit during the Depression in the 1920s and was subject to additions and improvements in the years since. She hired contractors to add insulation to the walls, install solar panels, repair the tin roof, replace the windows, and upgrade the wiring for the electrical system. She dreamed of replacing the 1960's kitchen appliances and remodeling the bathroom. However, new fencing for the pastures was an unexpected expense after the goats had escaped one time too many.

Joey and Bobby fastened makeshift halters from the nylon rope in Joeys' truck. They tethered the camels to the old wooden rail fence behind the barn until they could repair the shattered stall. With Maura's credit card in Joey's pocket, they made a trip into town for lumber and supplies to repair the damage.

Maura walked through the devastated garden, trying to determine what they could salvage, then spent the afternoon in the kitchen sorting the morning egg collection and scouring goat milk before returning to the budget spreadsheet on her laptop. She was glad Bobby finished the most critical chores before he found her in the pasture. The eggs and milk might bring in a few dollars that week. She hoped it would be enough for gas and a few groceries.

Howard remained in the barn, supervising repairs and generally getting in the way. Buford and the hens patrolled the ravaged vegetable garden for bugs and grubs. The goats were in the front pasture beside the highway nibbling on kudzu and thistles while the new kids cavorted around their mothers.

In the early days of the farm, Grandpa built Grandma a private sunroom in the short leg of the L-shaped front porch. It overlooked the river with a view of the valley and was conveniently connected to the master bedroom. He had added a door and stone steps for direct access to her beloved herb garden. Her refuge was furnished with an overstuffed armchair and loveseat covered in pastel, floral chintz. He built a small bookcase and end tables of wood taken from fallen chestnut trees. Grandma's knitting basket still sat by the chair and one of her afghans draped over the back of the loveseat. Maura had spent many happy hours there with Grandma and as a small child had taken naps wrapped in the fluffy afghan. She was glad the cousins had left it untouched. Grateful for a few minutes of peace and quiet, she sat back in the armchair, propped her feet on a needlepoint-covered footstool, and gazed at the clouds over the mountains on the other side of the broad green valley.

"Maura! Maura, honey, wake up!" Three hours later, Katie, Joey's petite blond wife, softly patted her shoulder. "Maura, honey, wake up! I brought pizza for supper."

As they sat around the battered oak table in the large kitchen Joey updated Katie concerning the events of the day between bites of super-supreme-everything pizza.

"They are pretty beat up," Joey said, wiping cheese and sauce off his chin. "There is a large animal vet over by Vance Grove. I will send him to you. It looks like buckshot on their flanks."

Bobby was upset. "Who would do that to Willis and Hazel?"

"You named them?" Katie asked.

"No," Bobby replied, "That's what they told me their names are."

"Uh-oh! You're in for it now, Maura!" Joey laughed.

"Why?"

Katie explained, "Once you name an animal it means you are committed to caring for it. You promise food, shelter, and affection."

Elbows propped on the table beside a plate full of pizza, Maura dropped her face into her hands and sighed. "I am an accountant! I don't know about such things!"

"That's okay, Miss Maura," Bobby chimed in, "We'll help you figure it out."

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(Stay tuned for Chapter Three: Buford and the Preacher. Chapter 1, It Wasn't Turtles, is out there if you want to look for it. Thanks for reading.)