Jim Harrison's most ambitious and stunning collection of novellas since Legends of the Fall The Farmer's Daughter is an unforgettable portrait of three decidedly unconventional American lives. With wit, poignancy, and an unmatched depth of spirit and humanity, Harrison has again reminded us why he is one of the most cherished and important authors at work today.
The three stories in The Farmer's Daughter display a writer whose gift is in full flower. The title novella is the uncompromising, heartbreaking tale of Sarah, a home-schooled fifteen-yearold girl recently transplanted by her somewhat oblivious parents to rural Montana, who is learning that the world is larger than her fundamentalist mother wants her to know. In the rapture of playing music, riding her horse, and enjoying the natural world, Sarah searches for clues to understand her own coming of age. But when her mother runs off with another man, the girl is left to deal with an act of unexpected brutality that will test her faith in the world she is starting to embrace.
In Brown Dog Redux, Harrison shifts to the lighter side. The beloved recurring character Brown Dog is killing time in Toronto where he's fled to save his adopted daughter, Berry, from being locked in an institution. But Toronto has run out of welcome and BD, still looking for love, enlists the help of an unexpected benefactor to sneak Berry back into the States on the tour bus of an Indian rock band called Thunderskins, with riotously funny results. Harrison's final tale, Games of Night, is the witty, ribald, and occasionally harrowing memoir of a retired werewolf in contemporary times. Misdiagnosed with a rare blood disorder brought on by the bite of a Mexican hummingbird, he attempts to lead a normal life, but is nevertheless plagued by hazy, feverish episodes of epic lust, physical appetite, athletic exertions, and outbursts of violence under the full moon.
The Farmer's Daughter is a full meal of a book-a rich and rewarding visit to the world of an American master.

The Farmer's Daughter

By JIM HARRISON

Grove Press

Copyright © 2010 Jim Harrison
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8021-1934-6

Contents

The Farmer's Daughter.....................1Brown Dog Redux...........................107The Games of Night........................207

Chapter One

1986

She was born peculiar, or so she thought. Her parents had put some ice in her soul, not a rare thing, and when things went well the ice seemed to melt a bit, and when things went poorly the ice enlarged. Her name was Sarah Anitra Holcomb.

She was without self-pity never having learned how to administer it. Things were as they were. A certain loneliness was an overwhelming fact of her life. Her family had moved to Montana in 1980 when she was nine years old. They felt like pioneers striking out from Findlay, Ohio, but without the young man called Brother, then eighteen and the son of her father's first marriage, who chose to stay behind but then up and joined the marines, an insult because the marines were the core of her father Frank's unhappiness. Frank had seen no combat in Vietnam but as a graduate of Purdue had been in the Competitive Strategies (all unsuccessful) Office in Saigon. His very best friend Willy, also from Findlay, had died from friendly fire in Khe Sanh. The death of Willy, a friend since childhood, was the poisonous goad that finally sent Frank out to Montana where he proposed to forget the world thirteen years after mustering out. The dissolving of the first marriage had put quite a crimp in saving a grubstake, and the second marriage and the arrival of Sarah further delayed his somewhat heroic plans. Frank was a pure ideologue and had planned a future that wouldn't include our culture and its murderous politics. As a mechanical engineering graduate of Purdue (magna cum laude), Frank was confident of making a living in Montana beyond the amount of the savings which he estimated would last three years.

In February 1980 Frank announced that they would make the big move in late April. He had just returned from Montana where he had closed a land deal for 180 acres. He made the statement with a military tinge as if saying, "We move out at dawn."

"Great! We're heading for God's country," said Frank's wife and Sarah's mother, who was nicknamed Peppy.

"There must be a hundred places in the U.S. that call themselves God's country," Frank muttered over his goulash made with super-lean beef. Peppy had been a home economics teacher when Frank met her at the Ohio State Fair where he had been manning his engineering firm's extensive display booth. One reason that he married Peppy was that his ex-wife had been an alcoholic and Peppy came from an evangelical family and didn't drink.

"I'm going to stay here and live with Grandma unless I can have a horse and dog on our ranch."

This brought dinner to a stop as Sarah's rare ultimatums always did. Her mother had never allowed her a dog because she thought of dog poop as satanic. Frank sat there waiting for his wife's lead.

"You know how I feel about dog fecal matter," Peppy said properly.

"I'll teach the dog to poop a hundred yards from the house. If we're living twenty miles from the town we need a dog to guard our chickens, cows, and horses on the ranch."

"It's not a ranch. It's a farm," Frank said irrelevantly.

"We'll think about it, sweetheart," Peppy said.

"No we won't think about it. It's a dog and a horse or I'm staying in Ohio with Grandma." Sarah's grandma was a piano teacher, a Swede who had married an Italian truck farmer, not necessarily the best ethnic mix. Every day after school Sarah stopped at her grandmother's to play the piano. She had been given her middle name, Anitra, from the composer Edvard Grieg's "Anitra's Dance" at iron-hard Grandma's insistence.

"Well, all the kids in the Montana countryside seem to have a horse and a dog," Frank offered.

"I'll pray about it," Peppy said in resignation.

Sarah had to pray with her mother every morning but she had her own eccentric versions of prayer including imaginary animals, the moon and stars, and music, horses, and dogs. Her grandmother disliked Peppy's evangelical beliefs thinking her son had traded in a drunk for a nitwit. Grandmother taught little Sarah that music was the speech of the gods while Peppy insisted that Sarah learn to play some hymns to counterbalance the sinful effects of the classics. Sarah would play the lugubrious "Old Rugged Cross" poorly because it was no more than barbed wire set to music.

Packing up was hard. Sarah wanted to take along their big backyard with its maples and oaks, its coverts of viburnum, honeysuckle, and barberry, the ornamental crab-apple trees and flowering almond, the tiny playhouse you had to crawl into, even the path out the unused back gate, and the back alley where she fed stray cats and where she walked to visit her few friends. Her best friend Maria who was a year older and prematurely pubescent absolutely guaranteed Sarah that cowboys would rape her in Montana and that she best get herself a pistol to defend herself, a matter over which Sarah spent a good deal of time brooding.

One Friday afternoon in mid-April her father showed up with a huge three-quarter-ton black pickup and a long trailer. Two neighbor men helped load the trailer and on Sunday there was a yard sale for what had to be left behind including Sarah's ancient piano. What would she do without a piano? Her parents, of course, hadn't thought of that. Her piano in a real sense was her speech, her only viable conversation with the world. Her father talked sparsely and her mother didn't listen in her busyness of figuring out what she was going to say next. Sarah stayed back in a thicket during the yard sale watching people paw over her bedroom furniture and beloved piano. So much had to be left behind to make room for Frank's tools and equipment, including a large floor tent they would live in while Frank built them a log cabin. She wept behind the honeysuckle bush when a man bought the piano for thirty bucks announcing loudly that he would tear it apart for its hardwood lumber. This man was going to murder her piano and it reminded her of when she and Maria would ride their bikes over to the Humane Society to visit the lovely dogs and pick out which ones they'd like to own should they ever be permitted a dog. Only after several trips did they learn from a brusque docent lady that most of the dogs would be euthanized because no one wanted them. They would kill the dogs like the man would kill her piano. Brushing her tears with a shirtsleeve she had the idea that children like herself were kennel dogs.

The jump from the piano to man to herself to dog wasn't difficult. Unlike most people, she knew her own story while she kept on making up a new one. She had figured out that it was the big gaps that were the problem so she tried to keep busy. Did her father love her? Off and on. Did her mother love her? She doubted it. Her mother loved the certainty of her own religion. She had only an obligatory, perfunctory love for her daughter. Peppy always reminded Sarah of that grinning, porcelain cat on the windowsill near Grandma's piano.

Chapter Two

1983

It was a far cry, as people say, from their brutally crude beginning to where they were a few years later. First of all late April is not reliably spring at an altitude of about forty-five hundred feet in Montana. That first day at noon it was thirty-five degrees with heavy sleet and a low-flying cloud bank coming...