We always pick-up barbecue from Super Smokers on the way home from the farm.
Following the protocol of our “no-touch” reality, my dad popped open the trunk of his car and returned to the driver’s seat. A Super Smokers employee then placed the bags in the back of our vehicle, and we hit the highway. The warm, sweet smell spread throughout the car and made my stomach rumble.
The farm, formally known as Golden Ridge Villa, is a forty-five-minute venture from our house in St. Louis—located beyond Six Flags and my childhood favorite restaurant, Tri-County Truck Stop (now shut down for health-related reasons). Yet, the drive from the suburbs into rural Missouri always feels shorter, usually filled with sixties music chosen by my dad and our large dog sitting on my lap like he is a petite chihuahua.
My grandpa, Zada, is the sole owner of the one-hundred acres of land in Washington, Missouri. Zada was born in East St. Louis, and he enjoys reminding us that his city upbringing made him self-reliant and street smart. From there, he put himself through college, working miscellaneous jobs and taking shit from no one. After failing physics and changing his major to business, he graduated and founded a real-estate business as a first generation American with three-hundred dollars to his name.
When asked why he decided to buy the farm forty years ago, he will always respond that during the Ronald Reagan era, taxes were too high, so he felt as if he was buying it with the government’s money.
On this day, we picked up double meat from Super Smokers. The portion would last one night at my house and several meals for Nana and Zada. As we pulled into my grandparent’s driveway, my dad called their home-line to announce our arrival. I quickly unbuckled my seat belt and exited the car to place a portion of packaged barbecue on their porch. Once I returned to the vehicle, the old wooden door opened, and we were greeted by my excited grandma and grandpa.
“You look great!” Nana said enthusiastically, with a hint of her Tennessee accent.
“You sure do,” Zada agreed, standing by her side with a wide grin. He is a hefty man with a loud voice, and when he is around, his presence is known. He was wearing a long sleeve collared shirt, khakis, and the slippers we gifted him for Channukah three years ago.
They did not leave the porch, and we remained in the car, like an invisible barrier separated us from each other.
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One Fall Saturday, when I was nine, I had Zada all to myself. He picked me up in his white Escalade, and we drove together to the farm. Without my parent’s permission, I sat in the front seat beside him for the entire ride.
After exiting the highway, we took a series of side roads until passing the worn Golden Ridge Villa sign, which proudly marks the entrance. The dusty road clouded the windshield view as we pulled into a makeshift parking spot.
Without hesitation, I exited the car and ran to the chicken coop to check for eggs. The pungent smell of ammonia inside the shed made my nostrils tingle.
I grabbed an empty carton and began searching through the nest boxes, careful not to get too close to any of the resting hens, like Zada taught me. The eggs were still warm and not clean; some had dirt or feathers tarnishing their pasty white shells. After successfully collecting half a dozen, I ran out of the coop to show Zada my selection.
He was waiting on a four-wheeler.
“Hop on. We will bring those to the car later,” he proposed.
Zada then lifted my small body onto the back of the ATV. As he drove, I held onto his thick waist with all of my strength. I continuously blinked my eyes to fight the wind hitting my face. We felt each divot in the unpaved road, sometimes catching air after a big bump.
He started to slow down when we approached the closed gate to the pasture. I finally exhaled the breath I did not realize I was holding.
“Zada,” I naively began. “Why do the eggs not turn into chickens?”
To this, he responded, “Some mothers lay eggs that become chickens, and others lay eggs that are meant for eating.” As a nine-year-old vegetarian, this answer appeased my curiosity and guilt. Zada knew everything.
He closed the gate behind us, and the journey continued. The wheels flattened the tall grass, temporarily documenting our path. Ahead, the land looked as if it went on forever—the rolling hills uninterrupted.
Zada then stopped the four-wheeler again beside a large tree. He mouthed “Shhhh,” with his pointer finger pressed against his lips. The branches of the tree above us spread wide and created an umbrella from the sun.
We creeped around to the other side of the thick trunk, where a heifer was lying on her right side, heavily breathing. She was white with large brown patches on her face and side. I noted what appeared to be two legs and a slimy substance coming out of her behind. We continued to watch in silence, but I had so many questions.
“What was happening? Why was it taking so long? Was something wrong?”
Mesmerized by the scene, I lost track of the passing time. Still lying on her side, the heifer’s left leg flailed up and down as she continued to contract and push. Then, a head appeared, and promptly after, a mucous-covered body and a flimsy sack fell into the world. A new life began in front of my eyes.
My grandpa calmly walked up to the calf, removed the thin sac from its face and cleared fluid from its nose. He wiped his hand on the ground then returned to my side. Promptly, the new calf began to breathe.
Not only did Zada know the answers, he was prepared to render assistance.
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Today, I don’t eat red meat, except for the pork from Super Smokers. The tender meat breaks apart at the touch of a fork. No combination competes with a bite of Super Smokers’ mac-and-cheese and pulled pork. A buffet of chicken, pork, ribs, and burnt ends, in addition to sides of mac-and-cheese, coleslaw, and potato salad was always a classic for our “farm parties.”
In elementary and middle school, we would invite five or six families out to the farm for these events. The farm was a magical place, and for those who had never been, the vast fields and run-down buildings felt like a utopian escape from their busy lives. Nana and Zada always accompanied us to make sure everything ran properly.
At this particular farm party in sixth grade, I invited a few friends from my new school. Needing an activity to keep us busy until dinner, I grabbed two wooden paddles from the shed, and we made our way to the lake.
Together, we flipped over the heavy metal canoe which always remains facedown a few meters up from the water. I could never predict what would be revealed underneath. Sometimes months passed without the canoe being moved—plenty of time for a snake to lay eggs or a family of beetles to move in. Luckily, this time, there were no surprising visitors.
We dragged the narrow boat to the water. My three friends each took a position on one of the dirty seats, leaving the back open for me. I gave the boat a little push and then hopped into the stern. After a few paddles, we were aimlessly floating away from the land.
At the lake, if no one speaks, the only sounds are a frog hopping off a rock or the birds chirping in the distance. The lake is small enough that there are no currents or waves, only small ripples from any movement.
Growing up, when my brothers and I fished off the dock, I felt I was disrupting this peaceful ecosystem. We would purchase worms from a gas station on our way, and then use them as bait. Zada taught us to loop the worm at least three times on our hook, so they were securely attached when we casted the line.
However, even better than the dock, was the “secret spot” — a concealed opening in the woods on the other side of the lake. The first time Zada showed my brothers and I this spot, I knew he was clever. The fish would never suspect us there. The dock was so obvious.
“How are you ladies doing?” Zada asked from the shore. He did not need to yell; the natural tone of his voice easily carried to our canoe.
I responded by waving two thumbs-up in the air. I noticed he had a smaller kayak-like boat strapped onto the back of his ATV. He must have driven down while we were distracted. I watched as he placed the tip of his boat in the water.
My friends and I continued to chit-chat, and I occasionally used the paddle to avoid colliding into a drooping branch. When we got close to the shore, swarms of bugs infested the air, and I would quickly navigate us away.
When we were about to paddle past the secret spot, Zada announced “I am going to join you.”
My back was to him, almost half-way across the lake, so I turned to give him a smiling nod of approval. He had one foot in the grass, and the other was stepping into the boat. Before I could recognize what was happening, the boat continued to slide forward, while the rest of his body was still on the shore. He quickly tried to propel himself into the escaping kayak. Instead, the flimsy plastic vessel flipped, and Zada submerged under the water. After the loud splash, the lake returned to its natural silence.
Seconds felt like minutes as I frantically paddled closer to him.
He emerged with his collared shirt sticking to his skin, and his always brushed hair was pressed flat on his forehead.
“Are you okay?” I anxiously yelled.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” he abruptly responded.
He sounded angry, but also, he looked vulnerable and scared.
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I watched my Zada struggle to bend down and pick up the barbecue I had placed on their porch. His knees are not great these days, and neither are his wrists and back. His hair, which was always brushed, had grown too long in quarantine to be tamed.
“How was the farm today?” he asked from the porch.
My family’s escape from our house during these lonely days was too far out of his comfort. Due to an immense fear for their own safety, my grandparents have rarely ventured past that porch since the pandemic began.
“It was great,” my brother responded. “But we missed you guys.”
Years have passed since Zada picked me up on an ATV and showed me the freedom and purity of new life. Now, his own life is continuously becoming more restricted and difficult. Recently, his kids pushed him to sell the cows he loved because even with assistance, the maintenance outweighed his capabilities.
When Zada fell into the lake, I realized he was not invincible for the first time, and no matter how much I want to believe, this will not change. His once never-ending spew of facts and stories has been repeated throughout the years, until ingrained in the minds of his grandchildren.
Do not wake the resting hens. Wrap the worm three times. Fish in the “secret spot.”
His aging is inevitable, but he has passed down his knowledge, and I know when this pandemic ends, we will drive to the farm together and pick-up Super Smokers on the way home.
Carlye Goldenberg | July, 2020 | St. Louis & Washington, MO