Farm Story: Coming out of Indiana

By Eddie Casson

Eddie Casson grew up on a farm in a small Indiana town where Church, family, and identity
were the unchanging signposts of an acceptable life. Conventionality was more than just
expected--it was the highest form of success. Art, music, and movies might have their place
here and there, but bonus was for boys to excel at traditional masculine
pursuits. Despite always feeling somehow different and apart from most of everyone else
around him, he worked hard to be the perfect image of a son, brother, and friend. Reared in a
household where perfection and faith were the two pillars of the family, he struggled to
understand his own identity as well as the currents of unhappiness--and change--that were
beginning to swirl around him and the outside world. Finding his way out of the straight jacket
of his past into a different kind of future was a long rock-covered road. He would find that his
choices would hurt people he loved along the way, but he also knew that living his true life
would be the only thing that would make it all worth it. And with a loving and forgiving heart,
he would be able to find his way back to people he loved while stumbling forward into his own
happier future.
This book is a memoir about growing up in Indiana in the '60s and '70s as a gay kid and young
man. It is a series of linked portraits and moments that weave the story through. Eddie
worked to really create a sense of what it was like in these particular places in the particular
time. The Midwest in those days had barely entered the modern era and his youth and life had
a truly gothic, otherworldly cast to it. It conveys not just the struggles of his experience, but
the poetry and soulfulness of it as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645367567

Eddie Casson

Eddie was born in Oakland City, Indiana, and grew up in nearby Winslow, where he graduated from Pike Central High School. After moving to Evansville, he attended Tri-State Beauty School and began his career as a hairstylist and make-up artist. He currently lives in Manhattan with his husband of 30 years, Jeff, and their two standard black poodles, Dolly and Loretta.

Book preview

Ground

About the Author

Eddie was born in Oakland City, Indiana, and grew up in nearby Winslow, where he graduated from Pike Central High School. After moving to Evansville, he attended Tri-State Beauty School and began his career as a hairstylist and make-up artist. He currently lives in Manhattan with his husband of 30 years, Jeff, and their two standard black poodles, Dolly and Loretta.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my husband, Jeff.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Eddie Casson (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Casson, Eddie

Farm Story: Coming out of Indiana

ISBN 9781643783598 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645754039 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645367567 (ePub e-book)

The main category of the book — Biography & Autobiography / Personal Memoirs

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgments

My deepest thanks to Ryan Eagle, for taking on the initial challenge of helping me sort through decades of memories and stories.

To Michele Rubin, for pushing me not only to find my voice but to really listen to what it was saying. Your coaching, writing, editing, and passion for literature took Farm Story to new heights. I’ve never had anyone make me feel so talented.

To David Matt, for being my dear friend and for believing in Farm Story from the very start. Without your guidance and experience, and without the highly talented team of friends and family you brought to the project, it would have never happened.

To Sara Corbett, who blessed my book with her innovative and creative design talent that brought it to life in a way I would not have thought possible.

To James Armstrong, for editing the text and lifting my voice and story with his thoughtful and accurate eye.

To Doug Wolf, for guiding us through the unknown world of publishing and printing and leading us to the right solution.

To those who assisted in helping me remember: Karen and David Holmes, Ivalyn Floyd, Janie Meyer, Cindy Bennett, Karen Halle, Jennifer Johnson, Kathy James, Sam Mason, Martha Bierce Crafton, Phil Connell, Dick Engbers, and my sister, Valorie, who spent countless hours on the phone listening, loving, and supporting. Also Jackie Miles and Cindy Hall, who were kind enough to help along the way by reading and editing the early versions.

To Marina Abramović, for making me feel like an artist. To Diane Birch, for endless inspiration through your music. Many thanks to Stephen Paley, Amber Ball, Larry Casson, Ivalyn Floyd, and Jeff Elstone for photos.

To every girl who gave me a reason to smile and every person who ever asked me to tell them one of my stories, I’m forever grateful.

To my grandmother Ma-Maw, for giving the gift of glitter.

I’m still here because of you.

Part I: Lost

Chapter 1: Winslow

Like everything in my youth, the farm is filtered through a kind of movie lens in my mind. Seasons in the Midwest can flit by swiftly—a month of fall suddenly becomes winter; a hint of spring in the evening becomes blistering summer by the next morning. On the farm, each season has its own scenery, its own vivid film setting. And Winslow was country—a real country, not some tidy notion of suburban backyard chicken-keeping. Rural life remains tough in this country, and each season can bring both beauty and hardship.

Our house sat up on a hill, away from Pike Forest Road. It was small, with no trees around it, but it had a very elaborate rock driveway. Behind the house was a field enclosed by a rusted barbed wire fence, with a gate made from wood beams and sheet metal. You could look out across the wide-open space and see our horses drinking from a small pond. A few feet from the gate was an old barn with a black tar-paper roof. From my favorite vantage point—my bedroom window—I could watch the seasons shift and mark the time.

I enjoyed fall the best; it’s the most beautiful season in Indiana. Lush, colorful, and vibrant. On the weekends, my brother, Timmy; my sister, Sissy; and I always headed up the state forest path toward the old fire tower. The leaves glowed with gold tips as the green faded away, and they blew in the wind like ocean waves of color. I would think of the Douglas Sirk movie Written on the Wind—a film I loved and had watched again and again on late-night television.

We took shortcuts so that we could pass the old iron bridge by climbing down underneath in order to cross over. The riverbank was narrow, and we would pretend we were circus performers walking the tightrope. Exploring abandoned and forgotten places was one of our main recreations in those days. Some of the old bridges we found dated back to the 1880s and were very ornate. The past never seemed far away in Winslow—it was the present that was elusive, the future completely invisible. Deep in the dense overgrowth, we stumbled upon long-abandoned tractors and ancient rusting school buses. The buses in particular provided entertainment. I loved Rod Taylor’s movie The Time Machine, and those hollowed-out buses were our very own time machines. We’d play time travel for hours and come home covered in streaks of rust.

Rural life has a dark, fairy-tale atmosphere to it. Glimmering creeks and lakes are like mirrors into an unseen world, and Hansel and Gretel can easily get lost in the deep woods of Pike Forest. People who have lived long and hard in the country know what to fear and guard against. My mother always told us to never climb the fire tower, and as long as I had my brother and sister in tow, I never broke any rules. Not until one autumn in my teens would I climb the old iron tower and see the incredible color show of trees and land. From up high in the tower, Indiana looked gorgeous and open. Not so much back on the ground.

Winters were brutal, but so was the claustrophobia of being housebound, so we would bundle up and head out. The woods became a winter palace, with ice coating the branches and ground. On the rare mild days, steamy fog rose from the melting ice, and I would pretend I was the evil ice queen, and the mists my powerful domain. The roads were treacherous in the winter, and more than once my mother ran her car into a ditch. Beyond being scared about my mom, I would be terrified of my father’s reaction to the damaged car. Surprisingly, my father, who was given to outbursts of terrible temper, would hold her calmly, saying it was okay as long as she wasn’t hurt.

The winter dramatically transformed the long rock driveway that led to the house. I always tried to imagine it as my own Yellow Brick Road; it would, I hoped, lead somewhere else someday soon. But for now, the white rock would ice over and glitter in the feeble winter sun. Watching from my bedroom window, I imagined that I was the snow queen on her throne, and I’d wish for a glittering white cape. For as long as I can remember, dreaming myself into fairy tales and movies was my imaginary escape down that long driveway. But unlike the snow queen, who would order others to do her bidding, I had farm chores. During the winter, I had to ensure that the horse trough was cleared of ice. If the outside pipes were frozen, I’d have to carry buckets of fresh water from the old washroom.

Despite this job being completely hellish, it was while doing it that I realized how much I loved our horses. They were magical, too, in their way, and would watch me and nuzzle my hands. I was afraid to ride them—afraid of so many things, really—but my love overrode my fear of being around them. They would come out of the barn wrapped in quilted blankets that my grandfather, Pa-Paw, had strapped on them the night before. They had the beautiful liquid brown eyes that all horses seem to possess, and steam flared from their nostrils in the bitter cold. I was so cold that even my gloved hands shook, but the horses seemed to love the cold, and they exuded a clean, fresh smell in the morning air.

The winter would drag on and drag me down with it. I longed for spring, which, when it finally arrived, seemed to last for just a few days before the onslaught of summer. Summers were hot, heavy, and stagnant. Though the smell of fresh cut hay was glorious, it was paired with the nauseating odor of cattle trucks and fertilizer. The flies were fearsome, and I felt sorry for the horses and the cattle. Life was as hard on the livestock and other animals as it was on us. The area was filled with predators, and our dogs would take off into the woods, often returning torn up or not at all. I tended to look at the animals as potential pets and got attached to them all—the chickens, the deer, the squirrels, the birds, and even the frogs. When an animal was killed, I would grieve as though I’d lost one of my friends. My father would chastise me for being soft and getting attached, which would only deepen my sadness.

Summer allowed me more time outside. Even under the scorching sun, the fresh cut alfalfa smelled sweet. I watched as Pa-Paw and his horse-trading buddies sat in the shade of our open garage and rolled cigarettes or pulled out tins of snuff. I was intrigued by the dark, tantalizing wood aroma and wondered exactly where it was they placed the stuff in their mouths. They always carried their own spitting cups. It seemed both nasty and a lot of work. Yet it was what real men did in the country—smoke or dip, talk horses, and spit. Not catch frogs or try to save chickens. From my earliest memories, I knew I wasn’t cut out for farm life.

Pa-Paw was always dragging an animal up to the farm. A dog, a horse, any creature he came across that he thought might have a better home with us than remaining in whatever circumstances had befallen it. Shortly after we’d become the caretakers of two puppies, Pa-Paw brought home a pregnant goat.

Mom, Pa-Paw, and I with one of our horses and a colt.

After the goat gave birth, Pa-Paw tied her to the fence with enough slack for her to tend to her kid, while still keeping her secure. A few hours after she gave birth, she tried to jump the fence to which she was tied and ended up hanging herself. Unfortunately, watching his mother inadvertently kill herself was not the most gruesome event the kid would have to endure.

The kid instantly took to the puppies that had arrived a few weeks earlier, and the three of them grew up as if they’d all come from the same litter. Goat (our admittedly unimaginative name for the kid) thought he was a dog. He’d sit on our laps just like the puppies, until he got too big. When he outgrew our laps, he’d sprawl across us to make sure he got the same amount of attention as the dogs. Goat fit right in. His being a little different from his adoptive siblings never bothered any of us…that is, until he reached sexual maturity. When he came into his own, Pa-Paw said, We’ve got to get him castrated or he’s gonna start pissin’ through his whiskers. And once he starts rubbing up on you, you’ll never get that smell out. I had no idea what he meant until later, when I learned that male goats will urinate on their own faces and front legs in the course of disseminating pheromones to attract a mate. Basically, because Goat was a dog to us, Pa-Paw wanted to make sure he remained a sanitary playmate.

Worse for Goat than witnessing his own mother’s death was the trip that Pa-Paw organized to visit the town veterinarian, Charlie Cash. Charlie was what they called a farm vet. He might have had training in veterinary school, or maybe he just picked up everything he knew by watching other people go about the business of tending to their animals over the years.

My Pa-Paw

If it was the latter, then Charlie had had plenty of time to learn, judging by his ancient appearance. Once we arrived at Charlie’s place, I stared at him through the windshield of Pa-Paw’s truck. He looked downright skeletal. Like a turtle’s shell, his stiff denim shirt seemed to hold him together, with his impossibly skinny neck and wrists peeking out. Between the wrinkles on his face and the short, arthritic steps he took as he moved about, I guessed that Charlie had to be about a hundred. He greeted Pa-Paw a few minutes after we parked.

Clearly, Pa-Paw knew what to expect, because he turned to me before hopping out of the cab and said affectionately but firmly, Boy, you stay in this truck. The two codgers made small talk for about ten minutes while the unwitting goat wandered around the bed of the truck just behind me. When Goat’s moment of reckoning neared, the two men parted. Charlie came and got Goat and led him toward a work area where there was an assortment of metal instruments, some leaning against a fence, others protruding from a canvas Klein tool bag that looked like it should belong to a carpenter, not a doctor. On the short walk, each step that Goat took made his pear-shaped ball sack slosh back and forth, bouncing off his hind legs. Pa-Paw leaned back against the driver’s door, and I sat frozen to my seat on the passenger’s side, as he’d instructed.

After he’d fastened Goat’s makeshift leash to a rusted-out pile of disused farm equipment, Old Charlie reached down for one of the tools in his bag. Then he approached the goat with a handful of food, which was all it took to seal the animal’s fate.

Goat and I were both taken by surprise when we found out that Old Charlie didn’t use anesthesia. The ancient fellow went into action with quick, jerky moves that I couldn’t believe his frail body could execute. Within seconds he’d immobilized Goat; a few seconds more and Goat’s balls had been sheared off. To my great shock and even greater distress, the passenger’s seat in the truck provided an unobstructed view of every move that both Charlie and Goat made during those awful moments. Old Charlie had succeeded in turning the buck into a wether, but the emasculation was far from done. Through the open window of the truck, I heard Goat’s screams. The bleating sounded almost human. As Goat convulsed in pain, leaping and pulling at the end of his leash, Charlie threw something on the ground a few feet from where he’d done the split-second surgery. It was too big to be the knife he’d used, but I hadn’t seen him reach for any other tools in the scramble leading up to the castration.

I started crying. I had had no idea that the ordeal would hurt Goat enough to make him scream like that. I flopped across the bench seat of the truck, but there was no escape from those bloodcurdling screams. Pa-Paw, still leaning against the door of the truck, peered in to see my reaction. He turned away to give me a bit of privacy, stared down at the ground for a moment, and said, That…goat…don’t…feel…a…goddamn thing. I sat back up and immediately looked to see if Goat had collapsed. As I did, I saw Charlie’s hound dog run over to the mysterious item Charlie had tossed on the ground. The dog attacked it, flipping it up in the air to gain a better purchase on it. Only then could I make out what had happened. As Goat’s cries were growing more desperate, strained to pitches I’d never heard from an animal before, Charlie’s hound dog was eating Goat’s balls.

Once the operation was over, Old Charlie went back into slow motion. As Goat’s screams persisted, Charlie slowly bent over and grabbed the handle of an oversized paintbrush sticking out of a bucket that Pa-Paw said was full of sheep dip. Charlie slapped a brushstroke of the concoction, made of fungicide and whatever else had collected in the bucket, across Goat’s belly and fresh wound.

I remember thinking that Pa-Paw’s steadiness at the sight and sounds of something so macabre must mean he was a real man. A bull could have been charging him, but with his Stetson pulled down low and a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, he would have just sauntered this way or that and gone about his business. Not me. I could be traumatized by almost anything on the farm. In other words, I was not a real man. I was to become obsessed with what a real man was and wasn’t.

Even everyday farm responsibilities that someone like my grandfather wouldn’t have thought twice about were horrifying to me. One of my designated chores was shoveling horseshit out of