TANGIPAHOA
PARISH
by
Michael Lawrence
PARISH
by
Michael Lawrence
CONTEST
e-mail your comments,
please reference the title of
the article in your e-mail.
please reference the title of
the article in your e-mail.
Two more head down last night, two of my best milkers on top. As if it isn’t hard enough on
a small farmer. The city folk buy all their milk from one or two big farms. Puts the price
squeeze on the little man milking just a few dozen head. Hardly seems fair. You’d figure
there’d be enough thirsty city folks to keep every farmer in Tangipahoa Parish busy. But I
can’t see why anyone even bothers farming here anymore. And now this.
The first thing I see as I sit on the steps lacing my boots are more of those damn turkey
buzzards going in circles above the pasture, like a circus ride up against the dawn. My heart
about sagged into my guts. It’s the same scene as last week and those three weeks before.
It wasn’t a good sign them other mornings so I didn’t hold out much hope.
Two head this time. That’s half a dozen total now. Plum drained, and not for no milk. Like
their skin was sort of sprayed onto the bones with a hose. What kind of varmint feeds like
that? None in my experience. It’s possible some young rascals from town are up to their
devilment, mooning around my place at night killing my cows. But why? It’s too much
work involved to be simple mischief. And as for spite, I don’t recall crossing a man who
didn’t deserve it in all my born days.
And how? Some sort of twisted siphon? I hear they’re building machines that can fly, with
real men in them too, so if someone wants to build a machine to drain cows or fly men
around, then I wouldn’t put it past some white man to invent it. Well, somebody done it
somehow and I better get to the bottom of things in a right hurry.
I told Millie. She didn’t take it any better this week than last. Crying about if we lose one
more head we’re done for. Tangipahoa Parish and the bank will be fighting over the meager
receipts from our auction. I told her don’t worry. I told her everything will be fine. I had a
plan to forestall the loss of any more head. That was sort of a lie, but I was thinking on it
right hard you can make book.
In town that very afternoon I spoke with Jim Toland who milks thirty head about a mile from
my place. He told me yes, he had lost two more head hisself this week same way as before.
Damned curious, he told me, to say nothing of unfortunate. What did he reckon to do about
it, I asked? Toland had his son waiting up in the pasture at night, making sure nothing did his
herd any more harm. Toland hisself would just have to pick up the slack on the milking end
of things until this was put behind them. Sounded like he was worse off than us from the
way he told it. But I’d be hard pressed to believe it.
Well, there was nothing else for it. I would set out with my twelve-gauge and a lantern at the
ready. My Winchester would settle this for sure. At my age staying up all night and going
straight to milking and chores in the morning is a tall order sure enough, but the only other
thing would have been to hire a local boy to do the setting. In our money fix that’s hardly
likely.
It was my sixth night consecutive waiting up for this fiend and I was allowing myself to think
it might be over. I was like in a dream, half-awake and half-sleeping, when I heard some
heifers start to bellow like they were afraid of something. I set out at my fastest down the
bank and lit my lantern at the stone wall. I could have swore I seen a great black cat among
the herd.
In my time I’ve seen about every one of God’s critters in Tangipahoa Parish, from a crawfish
to a chinaman, but I’ll be dog if I ever heard of a black painter down in these parts. But I
looked closer and it weren’t any cat at all but a kind of giant wolf or something. Mean
looking bastard, snout all up in my prize heifer.
Well I plugged that black bastard plum through sure enough, and him running off howling like
a fiddler’s bitch at Carnival. I followed with the lantern and thought I cornered him at the
ravine. But there wasn’t any wolf, only that cow-thieving nigger Pete Tucker who we strung
up last year after Will Holcombe finally caught him. Tucker stood there defiant-like, naked
as the night we buried him out near Toland’s place. He was all shiny looking and dripping
with syrup or something. And him staring at me grinning like he just showed a full-house to
my pair. It’s a misfortunate man who has to kill the same nigger twice for damn near driving
him out of business. But after all this I was primed to do it sure enough. I lifted my
Winchester but Tucker stepped back and sort of dissolved into the woods.
Now I’ve seen some things in my day but damn it’s a shame about those lost head. Seven of
them. And for what? I went back to the house and finally got some rest.
I never told Millie a thing about that night, no good could come from it. Anyway, the killing
stopped, we made it through and restocked, and things are about the same as before. But
something about that whole mess still don’t set right with me.
(955 words)
a small farmer. The city folk buy all their milk from one or two big farms. Puts the price
squeeze on the little man milking just a few dozen head. Hardly seems fair. You’d figure
there’d be enough thirsty city folks to keep every farmer in Tangipahoa Parish busy. But I
can’t see why anyone even bothers farming here anymore. And now this.
The first thing I see as I sit on the steps lacing my boots are more of those damn turkey
buzzards going in circles above the pasture, like a circus ride up against the dawn. My heart
about sagged into my guts. It’s the same scene as last week and those three weeks before.
It wasn’t a good sign them other mornings so I didn’t hold out much hope.
Two head this time. That’s half a dozen total now. Plum drained, and not for no milk. Like
their skin was sort of sprayed onto the bones with a hose. What kind of varmint feeds like
that? None in my experience. It’s possible some young rascals from town are up to their
devilment, mooning around my place at night killing my cows. But why? It’s too much
work involved to be simple mischief. And as for spite, I don’t recall crossing a man who
didn’t deserve it in all my born days.
And how? Some sort of twisted siphon? I hear they’re building machines that can fly, with
real men in them too, so if someone wants to build a machine to drain cows or fly men
around, then I wouldn’t put it past some white man to invent it. Well, somebody done it
somehow and I better get to the bottom of things in a right hurry.
I told Millie. She didn’t take it any better this week than last. Crying about if we lose one
more head we’re done for. Tangipahoa Parish and the bank will be fighting over the meager
receipts from our auction. I told her don’t worry. I told her everything will be fine. I had a
plan to forestall the loss of any more head. That was sort of a lie, but I was thinking on it
right hard you can make book.
In town that very afternoon I spoke with Jim Toland who milks thirty head about a mile from
my place. He told me yes, he had lost two more head hisself this week same way as before.
Damned curious, he told me, to say nothing of unfortunate. What did he reckon to do about
it, I asked? Toland had his son waiting up in the pasture at night, making sure nothing did his
herd any more harm. Toland hisself would just have to pick up the slack on the milking end
of things until this was put behind them. Sounded like he was worse off than us from the
way he told it. But I’d be hard pressed to believe it.
Well, there was nothing else for it. I would set out with my twelve-gauge and a lantern at the
ready. My Winchester would settle this for sure. At my age staying up all night and going
straight to milking and chores in the morning is a tall order sure enough, but the only other
thing would have been to hire a local boy to do the setting. In our money fix that’s hardly
likely.
It was my sixth night consecutive waiting up for this fiend and I was allowing myself to think
it might be over. I was like in a dream, half-awake and half-sleeping, when I heard some
heifers start to bellow like they were afraid of something. I set out at my fastest down the
bank and lit my lantern at the stone wall. I could have swore I seen a great black cat among
the herd.
In my time I’ve seen about every one of God’s critters in Tangipahoa Parish, from a crawfish
to a chinaman, but I’ll be dog if I ever heard of a black painter down in these parts. But I
looked closer and it weren’t any cat at all but a kind of giant wolf or something. Mean
looking bastard, snout all up in my prize heifer.
Well I plugged that black bastard plum through sure enough, and him running off howling like
a fiddler’s bitch at Carnival. I followed with the lantern and thought I cornered him at the
ravine. But there wasn’t any wolf, only that cow-thieving nigger Pete Tucker who we strung
up last year after Will Holcombe finally caught him. Tucker stood there defiant-like, naked
as the night we buried him out near Toland’s place. He was all shiny looking and dripping
with syrup or something. And him staring at me grinning like he just showed a full-house to
my pair. It’s a misfortunate man who has to kill the same nigger twice for damn near driving
him out of business. But after all this I was primed to do it sure enough. I lifted my
Winchester but Tucker stepped back and sort of dissolved into the woods.
Now I’ve seen some things in my day but damn it’s a shame about those lost head. Seven of
them. And for what? I went back to the house and finally got some rest.
I never told Millie a thing about that night, no good could come from it. Anyway, the killing
stopped, we made it through and restocked, and things are about the same as before. But
something about that whole mess still don’t set right with me.
(955 words)