The Old Farm

                                              

1

My name’s Trent. People call me “Cornelius Van Der Merve IV” for short. But you can just call me Chuck. This is a story of the wild summer of 1992, one that will be forever enshrined in my memory. My older sister, Handsoap, and my little brother, Flip Flap, were also witnesses to the strange events surrounding this crazy summer. 

First of all, you’re probably wondering… why the names Handsoap and Flip Flap? Aren’t those a little primitive for kids these days? Didn’t those names die out hundreds of years ago? Well, it all started 12 years ago, when my parents used to feed Handsoap big heaping bowls of soap when she was a baby. And that’s how she got her name. Flip Flap has an even more bizarre origin. When he was born, the first words out of his mouth were “FLIP FLAP!” in a weird disgruntled-old-man voice. He only said it the one time, and it was never heard again. And Trent? Well, that one’s pretty obvious. Am I right? 

Well, you must be wondering what was so crazy about the summer of 92. Well you know what? Just be patient okay? You’re always wondering things. Just stop wondering for two seconds and listen, okay? I’ve about had it with you. In fact, I’ve just about had it up to here. Do you understand? Are we clear? If not, we can just stop the story here, and no one ever gets to know what happened to Trent, Handsoap, and Flip Flap. Would you like that? No? Then sit down and keep your little gropey hands to yourself. 

Well, it all started one morning in June when our Dad, in a drunken rage, kicked the door down to our room and told us to pack our bags. Yeah, can you believe that? I’m 10 years old and I still have to share a room with my annoying siblings! Not only a room, but a bed! We each have our own assigned spot in the bed, with me in the middle and Handsoap and Flip Flap hanging precariously on their assigned edges. “Aw Dad, do we have to?” Handsoap whined from her edge. “Handsoap dear,” Dad said. “We must do all things, all things, required of us if we hope to obtain that glory and reward we so desperately yearn for, that glory and reward that comes only from the gates of paradise.” Dad could wax wise if he wanted to, extending his hands and gazing heavenward as he did so. “Uh, what?” Flip Flap asked. “JUST PACK YOUR BAGS AND GET MOVING YOU SNIVELING BRATS!” he yelled. “Oh, right,” Flip Flap said. 

I remember the breakfast that morning like it was yesterday. We all sat down to big platters of steaming hoagie buns and a plum. “So, do we put the plum on the hoagie bun, or…?” I asked. “My son,” Dad began, grasping my arm and smiling. “It mattereth not! Eat up, for thy father commandeth it!” “Aw thanks dad!” I say, and he gets a twinkie in his eye. Yes, you read that right. Not a twinkle. A twinkie. That’s what he eats for breakfast every morning, and it just so happened that at that precise moment, twinkie cream squirted in his eye. Bad news! 

"RAARRGGHH!!!” Dad exploded, thrashing all about, clutching at his eye. The table was upended, all our steaming hoagie buns and plums plummeting to the floor. “Don’t struggle honey, you’ll only spread the cream around!” my mom said, attempting to reassure him. But he was a man possessed. My siblings and I sat in silence as Dad crashed around the kitchen for another minute, before crumpling to the floor and falling asleep.

“Well that sure takes the… twinkie?” said Flip Flap, and we all laughed riotously. He’s a typical eight-year-old. 

2

Two hours later, we were on the road. We didn’t even know where we were going yet. I suppose Mom and Dad knew, but they definitely weren’t telling us. Until they decided to tell us.

“You’re going to your grandparents’ farm,” Mom said. 

“Borrrring!” yelled Flip Flap. 

“Oh, it’ll be fun!” said Mom. “You kids haven’t seen your grandparents in months! Aren’t you excited?”

“What a glorious time it shall be!” cried Dad, at the wheel. “Joy shall fill your hearts!”

“Yeah, whatever,” said Handsoap, who was on her i-phone pad pod playing on Instachat or Facegram or listening to some stupid band. 

“DON’T EVER TALK BACK TO ME YOU LITTLE JERK!” roared Dad. “NOW GET OUT!” 

And then he opened the back window of the van, causing the cabin to depressurize, so we were all sucked out the window, right onto the front lawn of Grammy and Grampy’s house. So it all worked out just perfectly. The van traveled further into the distance until it was simply a speck of dark cacao chocolate on the horizon, then vanished. The three of us sat in silence on the lawn, pondering this turn of events, when Grammy and Grampy burst out the front door. “KIDS!” they shouted. It was a joyous reunion of sorts. Grammy rained kisses upon me. Grampy rained firm handshakes upon me. Things were just raining all over the place. 

Once inside, we were treated to Grammy’s world-famous lemonade, which was pretty nasty and way too sweet. Flip Flap mentioned this to her face and got slapped, which he probably deserved. He just laughed when he got slapped though, which was fairly creepy to see if you had been there in person. Like he enjoyed it or something. Weirdo. 

3

Next on the agenda was the guided tour of the farm. First stop: looking at some cows. “Here, we have our horse, Sally,” said Grampy, motioning to one of the cows. 

“That’s a cow,” said Handsoap.

“You kids these days, thinkin’ you’ve got it all figured out!” Grampy responded, shaking his head. “And no respect for your elders!” Then he raised his cane and tried to whack her with it, but she did this crazy quick backward dodge thing that I had never seen her do before. Then he went for her again, this time a horizontal stroke, but she ducked just in time. Grampy, though, would not give up. He thrusted straight on, but she dove out of the way and grabbed a pipe lying on the ground. In the meantime, Flip Flap and I just sat there and watched, intrigued. Next, Grampy went for a vertical slash, but his stroke was met with her own in a vicious blade lock, his cane and her pipe. They stared at each other menacingly as sparks flew from their blades.

“You wield that pipe well,” said Grampy.

“You’re not so bad yourself!” said Handsoap, then thrust with all her might, throwing Grampy backwards.  But then he did this crazy triple backflip thing in the air, and landed perfectly on his feet. 

“Whoa,” I whispered. 

Then Grampy resumed his usual hobble with his cane, and everything was back to normal. Or was it?

Next on the guided tour was a visit to the old rope swing by the old pond. 

“Ah, my favorite rope swing!” said Grampy. “I used to swing here when I was your age, young man!” he said, poking his old crooked finger into my chest. Then he looked off into the distance, solemnly. “That was… until they came.”

“Who?” asked Handsoap.

“Wal-Mart,” said Grampy, pointing next to the rope swing. Indeed, there sat Wal- Mart, just three feet away, where a pond clearly should’ve been. Any soul brave enough to jump on the rope swing would have instantly smashed their face into Wal-Mart. 

A tear rolled down Grampy’s cheek. 

“Mr. Walton himself came to our house one day when I just 15,” said Grampy. “I remember him talking to my old dad on the front porch.”

“What’d he say, Grampy?” asked Flip Flap.

“He said, ‘Mr. Grampyson, that pond there is prime real estate. If you let me build there, I’ll make it worth your while. How does five million dollars sound?’”

“Whoa,” I whispered.

I noticed that Flip Flap’s eyes changed. Where there were normal eyes before, now they had changed to piles of cash, like in all those cartoons. 

“My old dad looked him right in the eye and said, ‘That old pond’s been in my family for five generations! You can take your five million dollars, and shove it!’ Then Mr. Walton said, ‘How does six million dollars sound?’ My old dad looked him right in the eye and said, “Deal!’ And that’s how it happened!”

“Wow, great story Grampy!” said Handsoap. 

But something did not sit right with me. If Mr. Walton had paid Mr. Grampyson six million big ones…

“So what happened to the money?” I asked Grampy. 

Grampy put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a nice firm squeeze. “Cornelius Van Der Merve IV,” he said. “My old dad took that money, and he bought himself a nice tractor with it.”

“A tractor?” I asked. “Six million dollars? Unlikely!” And I scoffed.

“What about… a flying tractor?” said Grampy, and his eye twinkled. 

“Whoa,” I whispered. Last time. I promise.

“Why would anyone need a flying tractor?” asked Flip Flap. Good question.

“That’s a stupid question,” said Grampy. “Now go on home and eat your supper!”

And thus we did.

Supper consisted of some sort of food… look, why does it even matter anyway, huh? Who cares? We eat pumpkin, we eat roast beef, we eat plums, we eat hog pudding, what difference does it make? Just get off my back. 

4

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about the flying tractor. Did Grampy still have the flying tractor? I had my answer within minutes, as Grampy appeared at the window, seated in his tractor, levitating 20 feet off the ground.

“HEY CHUCK!” Grampy called from outside. “CHECK THIS BABY OUT! I CALL IT ‘THE QUEEN HILLARY CLINTON!’”

I opened the window and leaned my head out. Sure enough. It was just flying around, all willy-nilly. On the side of the tractor was a picture of Queen Hillary Cilnton, wearing a tiara while smiling and waving. 

“HOP IN!” said Grampy. “WE’LL TAKE IT FOR A SPIN!” 

I climbed through the window, then hopped into the Queen Hillary Clinton next to Grampy.

“HOLD ON TIGHT!” yelled Grampy, and he cranked the throttle. 

“WOOEEE!” he called, and we blasted off into the night.

5

And it came to pass that Grampy and Chuck a.k.a Cornelius Van Der Merve IV a.k.a Trent were not seen again. There were some who said they were dead, that the Queen Hillary Clinton probably crashed into the upper slopes of the Himalayas, killing all on board. Still others said there was no evidence of that, saying that the Queen Hillary Clinton had become the first tractor to attain the speed of light and that it was, at this time, zipping through the cosmos on a vast intergalactic journey, discovering new worlds and civilizations never before known by mankind. There were reports through the years of people who claimed to have seen the Queen Hillary Clinton sailing through the sky, with Grampy Grampyson aboard yelling “WOOEEE” and Cornelius Van Der Merve IV yelling “I THINK I’M GONNA BE SICK” or just vomiting everywhere.

And so the legends went, through the years and across the generations of time immemorial. 

       

                       THE END