Farm Pants

“Mama, I’m going out! I’ll be back soon!
With a carrot in hand, a carrot that would be part of a warm meal in the autumn of 1937, Tricia’s mother turned, wiped her hands.
“Do you think you can find a moment in your busy life to shovel a little coal downstairs?” This was delivered with the expectation of protests, delivered in a resigned kind of way, knowing full well the reaction from young Tricia.
“Mother! My dress! I just changed, and now it’s coal you want!”
“I’m sure the Simpson boy can wait while you stoke the furnace a bit. He’s no stranger to coal dust, as I warrant their house will be warm for his young lady’s visit.”
Tricia went upstairs, defeated by her mother’s words, huffing as she put on the baggy denim trousers that she called her “farm pants.”
Her mother, who had now started on the potatoes, laughed as she turned and saw the girl heading down into the basement. This she heard from the steps, petulantly, as Tricia made for the coal chute: “The Madisons are getting a new oil furnace, tra la la la la! No more shoveling coal for the Madisons! But, no—we would never imagine such luxury! We’re happy to go mucking around down in the cellar, where the most dreadful things live! We’re happy to be with the spiders, positively look forward to heaping big black chunks of coal into that horrible machine!”
The Madisons. Over in their driveway was a nearly-new car, one of the bright and shiny Chevrolets with plenty of chrome and flashy green paint.
“Maybe you should live with the Madisons if we’re not providing as you see fit!” This was lost in the scraping of the coal shovel against the pile, while Tricia in her farm pants labored over the coal chunks and dumped the fuel into the maw of the glowing orange fire-box. She looked down at her soiled and coal-dusted pants.
“My goodness! These old farm pants are too good for this horrible work; just look at them! I’ll bet Alicia doesn’t have to wear farm pants! I would bet that no one over in the Madison house will have to wear farm pants once their new oil-burner is heating the house! The dirtiest work they’ll have is picking up the telephone, asking Maylene for the connection to the fuel oil people!” Acting out her imagined scenario:
“Hello! Yes this is the residence on Maiden Choice Lane. Yes, of course we have an account with you—it’s the new house with the crabapple tree out front, only there aren’t many crabapples this year. Yes, that’s the one! Will you please send your man around with a truck of that wonderful fuel. We needn’t be home, will most likely be away—you can simply send a bill or slip it under the door. Father will take care of it!”

Seventy years later, down there in the dark room with the worn workbench and stuff of years past, the canning jar lids nailed still to the ceiling rafters in a home-made storage system of hanging jars that you simply unscrewed from the ceiling to retrieve a nut or bolt or faucet washer, I labor again over the old coal-fired furnace. But this time I am bashing it to bits, hauling away its unwilling and heavy parts. If Tricia could only see.