#MothersDay story: Baba's Farmer Talk

Farmer talk is what townfolk call idle chat amongst the farms. It is said that farmer talk is so inane and innocuous that it can put any non-farmer to sleep. This is somewhat true: only those who live and work on the farms want to hear about how much chalk is in the soil and what kind of loam is down and how the sheep are doing and whether there is any fear of casadaicht, and I am sure half of you are already starting to drift off. 
Baba Connridh and Jaicobh MacDaede are old friends. Being two of the oldest people in Frewyn, each knows when the other is pretty well done for talking and can therefore say a lot by saying a little. It is no different between them whether they're talking about a new hay harvest or whether they're discussing surviving the latest plague:

Baba Connridh was arguing with the turnips. She wanted them planted before the day was out, but they had other ideas; they wanted the radishes to go first, being in with the carrots and parsnips, and though Baba would have them planted in the cabbage beds, the turnips decided they wanted in with the potatoes instead. She had fought the war with the turnips, and after they had revolted by having their some of their seeds rot early, she decided to concede to their demands and put them in the south facing plot, that they might flatter their brassican vanity and sit in the full sun as they grew. This would be allowed, but not without filling in the borders with onion and garlic by the way.

“Yer goin’ in here, and shise shin,” Baba grunted, bending down and seeding the rows. “And they’ll be no more bellyachin’ from the lot o’ yis. Ye’ll grow, and ye’ll go in next to the celery and the beetroot, and they’ll be no complainin’ from the lot o’ yis, dya hear me?”

The sprouts and seeds seemed to sigh at this, and without telling Baba their plans for the spring, and without hinting whether or not they should grow through summer, they settled into their slots, ready to take root, when the sound of a familiar jaunty rumbled by.

Baba stood up from the cabbage beds to find Beryn’s jaunty drumbling up to the house, Moraig trotting at a slackened pace, Beryn at the reigns with Jaicobh and Lochan in the seat beside. They were on their way home, Jaicobh having spent a few days at the keep in isolation, under Bilar’s watch, to be sure that none of the hardier Tyfferim visitors had caught the calaicht and would accidentally bring be bringing it back to the farms with them. They stopped just beyond the front fence of Baba’s house, and she was just coming up the neat cobble walk when Jaicobh hopped down to greet her.

“Ho, Mara.”

“Jaicobh,” said Baba, with a nod. “Boys.”

“Gran,” Beryn and Lochan replied, tipping their caps.

The pleasantries of country families passed, the calls for good health and inquiries as to how the children were getting on were all got through, and though Baba had no real interest or penetration, she went through the business tolerably well:

“Beryn,” she began, planting her hands on her hips, “how’s yer wan and the babe?”

“No babe no more now, Gran. She gettin’ real big. Hurts my shoulders to carry her now. Loch can’t even lift her up.”

                Lochan murmured that she was nearly as heavy as some of the pigs.

“They’re all bags and bones that age. She’ll straighten out.”

“Aye.”

“How’s yer girl?”

“Mer’s doin’ right well.”

“She still at the candles?”

“Aye, she is sure enough.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“Jaicobh, what’s yers at now?”

“Same as you, Mara. Knees in the beans and hands in the patch th’day.”

“Well, good day for it anyhow.”

“Aye.”

“Grand day out.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“And yer girl?”

“Doin’ well in the capital.”

“How’s the lambs, Loch?”

“Just fine, Gran. Birthin’ went well. Luckily no harm done. Nothin’ caught up our way.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

The conversations between Gran Mara Connridh and Jaicobh MacDaede were always decidedly short. Both being farmers, and both being the two oldest persons in Frewyn, one looking it and the other not much minding otherwise, they were neither of them for lengthy tales when there was business in the way. There was farmwork to be done, rows needed raking, seeds needed sowing, cuttings needed planting, and now that they had said their ayes, had their sniffs, and shared a few good nods, they were ready to say their goodbyes, Jaicobh returning to the jaunty, and Baba turning back to her house.  

“Need anything from town, Gran?” Beryn asked, as the jaunty was set in motion.

“Fine for now. Thanks all the same.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

They waved as they pulled away, Moraig whickering and clomping eastward toward town, and once they were out of Baba’s hearing and well away from the house, Lochan asked, “Mr Jaicobh?”

“Aye, Loch.”

“You think Gran even knows what’s happenin’? I mean with the calaicht and all.”

“Aye, she might.”

“She’s all alone here, and I don’t think she sees anyone but us when we pass by.”

“Even if she did get tell of it from someone goin’ to town, Loch, I don’t think Mara much minds. Little concerns her what isn’t her land, her cat, and the weeuns next door.”

“She kill one of ‘em yet?” said Beryn, with a slight grin.

“Aye, she won’t need to with that ditch she put in.”

“I did notice she pulled out the fencing. How many you reckon have fallen into it yet?”

“Well, given there were none outside, probably already one.”

They chuckled over themselves, but Lochan had more sobering feelings.

“But,” Lochan said quietly, “what if someone brings infected sheep along the road. What if Gran gets it and there’s no one to look in on her?”

“I don’t think she’ll get it, Lochan,” said Jaicobh, in a conciliating tone, placing a hand on Lochan’s shoulder. “Mara’s always been careful about who she lets on her land, and even if the calaict came all on its own to plague her, I don’t think she’d get it.”

“How come?”

“She’d either threaten it with work or with pie.”

You can read more about Baba Connridh here.