These things are not carefree. They aren’t allocated like fun times are for other children. These things are work and there are real consequences when something isn’t done properly. Not collecting all the eggs means foul-smelling work when it breaks and stinks up the little chicken house. Or worse, attracts a fox. A horse could go into crisis, or even die, if a health clue is missed. Half-hearted tending of the garden might mean an infestation is missed until it’s too late to do more than pull up plants and start fresh the next year.
All of this means Charlotte understands the severity of their situation, and more importantly, understands that she doesn’t have the breadth of experience necessary to make correct decisions. She’d stayed inside when her mother directed her to, had gone to the basement during the brightest part of the day, and resisted all urges to peek out of the windows. She had done this for days.
And now, those restrictions are lifted and she’s expected to work. Charlotte sucks in a deep breath and steps onto the porch to meet her mother and the truck of supplies they need.
Tabitha whips the truck around with practiced ease, then backs it up to within inches of the steps leading to the kitchen. The harsh sound of backing beeps break the night’s silence. Charlotte steps to the side and out of the way of the approaching cargo area.
Their house is farm-style in appearance, though it isn’t actually old. Like so much else now, it’s a modern replica. The wrap-around porch means a person can walk almost all the way around the house without leaving the protection of the overhang. That includes all three entrances to the house. Charlotte waits at the very edge of that covering, her toes extending no more than an inch over the edge of the porch.
They make quick work of getting the ramp into place, extending it from the back of the truck to the porch instead of the ground, which is the more usual method. Both hand trucks are strapped tightly to the sides of the interior, and Charlotte is happy to see the back of the truck well filled with large bags and boxes.
Owning a feed store is turning out to be a very good thing.
“It wasn’t broken into then?” Charlotte asks. They had discussed the possibility. This concern made the decision to venture back to the store easier. They have three horses of their own and two boarders that need feeding. They also have Lumpy, their dog, plus nine chickens.
“No, not yet. Soon enough though, if things get bad. I’ll probably go and get as much as I can until that happens.”
“I can go with you,” Charlotte offers.
In response, Tabitha bites at her lip, turning to the yawning cavern of the truck to begin the work of unloading. Waving her hand at a much smaller stack near the front, she says, “These we’ll unload here and put in the basement. All the rest goes to the barn.”
They work for hours, shifting the truck to the barn once their basement is full of bags of plain oats, dog food, molasses, and boxes of the few items they carry geared specifically toward humans. Those consist mainly of items a shopper might impulse buy on a hot day or when a bit hungry, like crates of sodas and bags of chips or cookies.
Into the barn go an almost ridiculous number of bags containing pre-mixed sweet oats, various other forms of horse feed, and plenty of chicken feed. Into the tack barn, which is cleaner and, most importantly, has its own climate control, go all the medical supplies they carry for animals, as well as supplements and grooming supplies they’re sure to run out of. The hospital stall attached to the tack barn, which is where a sick horse or one about to give birth might go, is forced to serve as the overflow space.
The horizon is just beginning to gray when they finish. Charlotte’s mother hurries her back into the house without even bothering to park the truck. The horses need tending, but all they get is a quick feed and a turn out into the pasture behind their house. There’s no time for more.
Both of them are exhausted, sweaty, and covered in a film of dust from the oats and pellets. It makes their skin feel gritty. Charlotte wants a shower more than food, but her mother demands she sit and eat two eggs plus an oatcake. They aren’t very tasty, but Charlotte knows her mother is trying to get her used to them before it’s all they have left. It could come to that.
The pantry is full and the basement lined with shelves of home-canned vegetables from their gardens, but they’re being frugal with what they have. Charlotte understands. She eats her oatcake.
*****
Over the course of the next ten days, Tabitha relents and takes Charlotte with her to the store. It isn’t really a store in the traditional sense, at least in terms of appearances. It looks more like a warehouse, with open spaces and visible girders painted in dull yellow far above their heads.
A good part of the warehouse is storage for bulk orders. Horse people tend to buy in bulk. It often surprises first time horse owners how much they need for an animal that happily grazes the land in their natural state. Alas, those wild horses wouldn’t live the long years most people could expect from their well-tended horse.
One of their horses is thirty-six years old, and he’s in fine shape. No longer ridden, of course, but happy. He eats well, loves to be nuzzled and stroked, and makes the most amusing noises when he’s brushed in just the right spot. He was a rescue bound for slaughter
