A Day in the Life

The sun was barely peekin’ over Lazy Hill when Mabel’s screech cut through the mornin’ air like a rusty saw.

“Jebediah Hawkins! You best get your no-account hide off that porch and fetch some water ‘fore I tan your sorry backside!”

Jeb cracked open one bloodshot eye, squintin’ at the racket comin’ from inside the rundown farmhouse. His rickety rocker creaked as he shifted, tryin’ to get comfortable without actually movin’. The porch boards beneath him groaned in protest, weathered by years of rain, shine, and Jeb’s considerable backside.

“Now Mabel,” he hollered back, his voice rough as gravel, “you know my bones is achin’ somethin’ fierce today. Ain’t fittin’ for a man in my condition to be luggin’ water buckets.”

The screen door slammed open so hard it nearly flew off its hinges, sendin’ a startled squawk through the chicken coop. Mabel stood there, hands on her hips, glarin’ at Jeb like he was lower than a snake’s belly. Her grey hair was escaping its bun in wispy strands, and her apron was already spotted with what looked suspiciously like yesterday’s gravy.

“If your bones ain’t achin’, I’ll give you somethin’ to ache about!” she threatened, wavin’ a wooden spoon in the air. The spoon had seen better days, much like everything else on their little patch of Appalachian paradise. “Now git!”

Jeb heaved a sigh that coulda moved mountains. Slowly, like a rusty tractor comin’ to life, he creaked to his feet. His joints popped loud enough to send a nearby squirrel scamperin’ for cover.

“Yes’m,” he grumbled, shufflin’ towards the well. “A man can’t even get a moment’s peace ‘round here. You’d think after forty years of marriage, a fella might earn the right to sit a spell.”

As Jeb ambled across the dusty yard, chickens scattered in his wake, squawkin’ and fussin’ like it was the end times. The old rooster, perched atop a fence post, eyed Jeb with what looked like sympathy. Its once-proud comb flopped to one side, a mirror to Jeb’s own drooping mustache.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Jeb muttered, squintin’ at the bird. “You ain’t the one married to a woman with a tongue sharp as a thorn and a temper hot as hellfire. Though I reckon them hens of yours might give you a run for your money.”

He reached the well, starin’ down into its depths like he was contemplatin’ jumpin’ in. The stone walls disappeared into darkness, cool and inviting compared to the already stiflingly hot morning. With another world-weary sigh, he grabbed the bucket and started to lower it.

“Lord have mercy,” he grumbled, the rope rough against his calloused hands. “What I wouldn’t give for one of them newfangled pumps. Or better yet, one of them city houses with water comin’ right outta the walls. Now that’d be somethin’…”

As the bucket splashed into the water below, Jeb glanced back at the porch. For just a second, a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Sure, Mabel was ornery as a wet cat, but life sure would be dull without her.

Not that he’d ever tell her that, mind you. A man’s gotta keep some secrets, after all.

Jeb hauled up the bucket, groanin’ and carryin’ on like he was liftin’ a whole cow instead of just some water. He staggered back to the house, makin’ sure to slosh a bit on his pants so Mabel’d see how hard he was workin’.

“Here’s your water, woman,” he announced, settin’ the bucket down with a dramatic thud. “I hope you’re happy. I mighta pulled somethin’ fierce gettin’ that for ya. Might need to take it easy the rest of the day, just to be safe.”

Mabel just rolled her eyes, already elbow-deep in a bowl of biscuit dough. The kitchen was small, barely big enough to swing a cat (not that they’d ever do such a thing, mind you). Pots and pans hung from every available surface, and the ancient wood stove dominated one wall, pumpin’ out heat like the fires of perdition.

“Lord give me strength,” she muttered, kneadin’ the dough with more force than strictly necessary. “You’d think I asked you to move the whole dang mountain instead of just fetchin’ some water. Now make yourself useful and go collect them eggs. And don’t you dare eat any raw ones this time! Last thing I need is you with the runs again.”

Jeb’s face fell at the prospect of more work, but he knew better than to argue. He shuffled back outside, grabbin’ a basket from its hook by the door. The morning sun was climbing higher, promising another scorcher of a day.

The chicken coop was a ramshackle affair, more patch than original wood. Jeb ducked inside, the familiar smell of feed and feathers washing over him. “Alright, ladies,” he announced to the clucking hens. “Time to pay your rent. Don’t make me stick my hand under you like last time. Mrs. Speckle, I’m lookin’ at you.”

One by one, Jeb collected the warm eggs, each one a small victory. He was just reachin’ for the last egg when Mrs. Speckle, a cantankerous old hen with a grudge, decided she wasn’t done with it yet.

“Now see here,” Jeb reasoned, eyein’ the bird warily. “We’ve been through this before. You lay ‘em, we take ‘em. That’s the deal.”

Mrs. Speckle’s beady eyes gleamed with chicken malice. Quick as a flash, she pecked Jeb’s outstretched hand.

“Yeowch!” Jeb yelped, yankin’ his hand back. “Why you ungrateful ball of feathers! I oughta make you into a Sunday dinner!”

The commotion sent the other hens into a tizzy. Feathers flew, eggs rolled, and Jeb found himself in the middle of a chicken tornado. By the time he stumbled out of the coop, he was covered in feathers and dust, looking like he’d gone ten rounds with a pillow factory.

Mabel, hearing the ruckus, had come out to investigate. She took one look at Jeb and burst into cackles that woulda put the hens to shame.

“Well, if it ain’t the mighty hunter, brought low by a bunch of birds,” she wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes. “You look like something the cat wouldn’t even drag in!”

Jeb tried to muster up some dignity, brushing feathers from his overalls. “Them ain’t normal chickens, Mabel. They’s possessed or somethin’. Especially that Mrs. Speckle. I swear she’s plotting against me.”

Still chuckling, Mabel took the basket of eggs from him. “The only thing that hen is plottin’ is how to keep her eggs away from your bumbling hands. Now go get cleaned up ‘fore you track all that mess into my kitchen.”

As Jeb trudged off to the rain barrel to splash some water on his face, Mabel called after him, “And don’t you go usin’ my good soap! That lye soap by the pig pen is good enough for the likes of you!”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of chores, each one met with Jeb’s creative attempts to avoid work and Mabel’s equally creative ways of making sure he did it anyway. By noon, the sun was high overhead, bakin’ the land like it had a personal grudge against shade.

Jeb collapsed onto the porch, fannin’ himself with his hat. “Mabel,” he called out weakly, “I do believe I’m ‘bout to expire from all this labor. Ain’t you got any of that lemonade?”

Mabel appeared in the doorway, a tall glass of cloudy lemonade in her hand. “Oh, so now you want something from me? After all that bellyachin’ about fetchin’ water this mornin’?”

Jeb put on his best hangdog expression. “Now darlin’, you know I always appreciate your fine cookin’ and brewin’. Ain’t nobody makes lemonade like my Mabel.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but Jeb could see the corners of her mouth twitchin’. Finally, with a dramatic sigh to rival Jeb’s own, she handed over the glass. “Here, you old sweet-talker. But don’t you go thinkin’ this gets you out of mendin’ that fence this afternoon.”

Jeb took a long swallow of lemonade, sighin’ in contentment. “Mabel, light of my life, if you keep brewin’ lemonade like this, I’ll mend every fence from here to the county line.”

They shared a quiet moment on the porch, the only sounds the buzzin’ of cicadas and the distant lowing of their cow, Bessie. Despite all their fussin’ and feudin’, these were the moments that reminded them why they’d stuck together all these years.

The peaceful moment was shattered by a loud crash from the barn, followed by an indignant “Moo!”

Mabel was on her feet in an instant. “Jebediah Hawkins, don’t tell me you forgot to latch Bessie’s stall again!”

Jeb’s eyes widened in panic. “Now Mabel, I’m sure I latched it good and proper. Bessie’s probably just… uh… redecorating?”

But Mabel was already stormin’ towards the barn, Jeb hot on her heels, all thoughts of aching bones forgotten.

They found Bessie in the feed store, happily munchin’ away on a bag of chicken feed she’d somehow managed to tear open. The cow looked up at them, completely unrepentant, bits of feed stickin’ to her muzzle.

“Oh, Bessie,” Mabel groaned, “you greedy girl. You’re gonna be sick as a dog, eatin’ all that.”

Jeb, seein’ a chance to redeem himself, puffed out his chest. “Don’t you worry none, Mabel. I’ll get her back in her stall quicker than you can say ‘butter churn’.”

He approached Bessie confidently, grabbin’ her halter. “C’mon, girl. Back to your room. You’ve done enough redecorating for one day.”

Bessie, however, had other ideas. With a mischievous glint in her eye (if cows can have mischievous glints, that is), she planted her feet firmly on the barn floor.

“Now don’t you go gettin’ stubborn on me,” Jeb warned, tuggin’ on the halter. Bessie didn’t budge. Jeb pulled harder. Bessie mooed contentedly and went back to munchin’ on the chicken feed.

What followed was a comedy of errors that would’ve had the whole county in stitches if they’d been there to see it. Jeb pushed and pulled, cajoled and threatened, even tried to bribe Bessie with promises of extra hay. But that cow wasn’t movin’ for love nor money.

Finally, red-faced and puffin’, Jeb admitted defeat. “Mabel,” he wheezed, “I think we might need to call in reinforcements. Maybe get ol’ Billy Joe from down the road to bring his tractor.”

Mabel, who’d been watchin’ the whole spectacle with a mix of exasperation and amusement, just shook her head. “Lord, give me strength,” she muttered for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Then, rollin’ up her sleeves, she marched over to Bessie.

“Now see here, you overgrown milk machine,” she said sternly, looking the cow right in the eye. “You’ve had your fun, but it’s time to go back to your stall. We’ve got milkin’ to do, and I ain’t about to let you turn my whole day upside down.”

To Jeb’s utter astonishment, Bessie gave a soft “moo” and docilely followed Mabel back to her stall.

“Well, I’ll be,” Jeb muttered, scratchin’ his head. “Reckon Bessie knows who’s really in charge ‘round here.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of heat and half-hearted attempts at productivity. Jeb managed to mend a section of fence before decidin’ that the heat was “too dangerous for a man of his delicate constitution” to be out in. He retreated to the porch, where his rockin’ chair and a secret jar of moonshine awaited him.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would make even the fanciest city painter weep with envy, Mabel joined him on the porch. Her own rocker creaked as she settled in, a tall glass of sweet tea in her hand.

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, watchin’ the fireflies start to twinkle in the gatherin’ dusk. The day’s bickerin’ faded away, replaced by the quiet contentment of a life shared.

“You know, Mabel,” Jeb said softly, his voice warm with affection and just a touch of moonshine, “days like this, I reckon we’re the luckiest folks in all of creation.”

Mabel reached over, pattin’ his gnarled hand. Her touch was gentle, belyin’ the strength that had kneaded countless loaves of bread and wrangled stubborn livestock. “You’re right about that, you old fool. Even if you are ‘bout as useful as a screen door on a submarine most days.”

Jeb chuckled, raisin’ his hidden jar in a toast. “To us, then. The hardest-workin’, best-lookin’ couple this side of Lazy Hill.”

Mabel clinked her sweet tea against his jar, her eyes twinklin’ with mischief. “And don’t you forget it, Jebediah Hawkins. Someone’s gotta keep you in line, and the good Lord saw fit to give me that job.”

As night fell over their little slice of heaven, Jeb and Mabel sat hand in hand, their bickerin’ forgotten for the moment. Tomorrow would bring more work, more fussin’, and more of their particular brand of love. But for now, all was right in their world.

Little did they know, life on Lazy Hill was about to get a whole lot more interestin’…