Walking (stumblin’) along beside the wagon I gazed up at him. Swayin’ astride the tongue rails of a hay wagon. Tall and sure, ridin’ along easy behind the big work horses. In between them and that tall mound of hay on the hay wagon. The loose hay piled high by hand with pitch forks, by his sons walking alongside the swaying rig.
Weathered hands burned brown on top, lightly gripped the leather straps snaking up between the two horses. While the calloused fingers gently urged, guiding them along through the rutted field. Offering no more than the occasional nudge. They know these fields as well as he does? They’ve spent nearly as many seasons plodding through them as him.
Now and then he gently flicks a horsefly away with the straps and the old horse grunts in approval. I always marvel at how bright the blood drop is, where the fly took it’s nourishing little sip.
Pulling the team up short before end of the windrow, he climbs down. The horses snort, maybe agreeing a break is overdue? One lowers his head down to munch the grass, dragging the others head down too (like it or not).
Summer afternoon sun bears down hot, yet grampa isn’t even sweatin’? That frayed, ole straw hat perched low on his brow, eyes sometimes peering up through the scratched green plastic visor. Lips pursed, curled slightly upward, he always seemed to be grinnin’ his way through the long work days on the farm. He seemed to never miss anything. Although he’d surely seen everything on his two-hundred acre farm countless times?
Walkin’ towards me, the big red hankie appears in his hand as he approaches. Swipin’ at his brow, it disappears into his back pocket. He bends close to the ground, a finger caresses a plant, he asks, “What’s this one?” The blue flower is faded, leaves looking vaguely like clover? I look down at it, then away (naturally, I don’t remember). Softly, he says, “Alfalfa son, and this is timothy over here, they’re going to keep our cows fed this winter”.
These little lessons routinely proffered throughout the languid, passing days of summer. I seem to forget as fast as I forget the names trees he points out. The only one I remember is the sugar maple? After that first maple sugar season, I never forgot that one! He seems to know them all, along with every creature (furry or not) that we see around the farm.
Laying one big hand on my shoulder, he urges me gently forward. Walking slowly away from the wagon load of hay. My uncles take advantage of the break, stepping into the shade of the wagon. The older one surreptitiously lights up a cigarette. The younger reaches under the hay, pulling out the glass jug of iced sun tea. They hang there lounging, they’ve been through this countless times themselves.
Strolling silently, ten yards from the wagon, he stops. I look over at him, then try to follow his gaze. “Do you see ‘em?” he asks quietly. Squintin’ in the direction his blue eyes are fixed, I don’t see anything. Not speaking, his hand nudges me slightly, and he waits.
Nearly a quarter mile away I finally see the deer! Three of ‘em, grazing near the tree line way out on the “big meadow”. Well past the far side of the distant barn. “A mother and two fawns...!” I whisper (as though they could hear me). Smugly pleased with my powers of observation in (finally) seeing what he’d spotted several minutes earlier.
Slowly squatting down next to me he (also whispers) “No son, not them. Look for the big buck in the tree line”. After a moment he points off a little to one side. Following his finger, the buck seems to materialize in the shade of the trees! And it’s watching us! I realize the two old males (grampa and that buck) had been watching each other. Most likely since grampa had climbed down off the wagon.
As seemed to happen several times a week, the old fella had just taught me another lesson in nature (and life). It’s not what you see at first, but what you look for that counts. Grandpa taught me more during those short summers than I learned in years (too many?) of “formal” education.
He died unexpectedly on Monday, May 26. I sorely miss him and the lessons he taught me (along with the love that came with them). Doesn’t matter a whit, that his “passing” was fifty years ago!
I Don’t Know About You..., learn any lessons from your grandpa?
Cal Teeple, founder of the Observational Cogitation Consortium may often be found three stools down from you. He may be ignored, accosted or contacted at: twinews@wayneindependent.com OR on the New Website at: wayneindependent.com.
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Walking (stumblin’) along beside the wagon I gazed up at him. Swayin’ astride the tongue rails of a hay wagon. Tall and sure, ridin’ along easy behind the big work horses. In between them and that tall mound of hay on the hay wagon. The loose hay piled high by hand with pitch forks, by his sons walking alongside the swaying rig.
Weathered hands burned brown on top, lightly gripped the leather straps snaking up between the two horses. While the calloused fingers gently urged, guiding them along through the rutted field. Offering no more than the occasional nudge. They know these fields as well as he does? They’ve spent nearly as many seasons plodding through them as him.
Now and then he gently flicks a horsefly away with the straps and the old horse grunts in approval. I always marvel at how bright the blood drop is, where the fly took it’s nourishing little sip.
Pulling the team up short before end of the windrow, he climbs down. The horses snort, maybe agreeing a break is overdue? One lowers his head down to munch the grass, dragging the others head down too (like it or not).
Summer afternoon sun bears down hot, yet grampa isn’t even sweatin’? That frayed, ole straw hat perched low on his brow, eyes sometimes peering up through the scratched green plastic visor. Lips pursed, curled slightly upward, he always seemed to be grinnin’ his way through the long work days on the farm. He seemed to never miss anything. Although he’d surely seen everything on his two-hundred acre farm countless times?
Walkin’ towards me, the big red hankie appears in his hand as he approaches. Swipin’ at his brow, it disappears into his back pocket. He bends close to the ground, a finger caresses a plant, he asks, “What’s this one?” The blue flower is faded, leaves looking vaguely like clover? I look down at it, then away (naturally, I don’t remember). Softly, he says, “Alfalfa son, and this is timothy over here, they’re going to keep our cows fed this winter”.
These little lessons routinely proffered throughout the languid, passing days of summer. I seem to forget as fast as I forget the names trees he points out. The only one I remember is the sugar maple? After that first maple sugar season, I never forgot that one! He seems to know them all, along with every creature (furry or not) that we see around the farm.
Laying one big hand on my shoulder, he urges me gently forward. Walking slowly away from the wagon load of hay. My uncles take advantage of the break, stepping into the shade of the wagon. The older one surreptitiously lights up a cigarette. The younger reaches under the hay, pulling out the glass jug of iced sun tea. They hang there lounging, they’ve been through this countless times themselves.
Strolling silently, ten yards from the wagon, he stops. I look over at him, then try to follow his gaze. “Do you see ‘em?” he asks quietly. Squintin’ in the direction his blue eyes are fixed, I don’t see anything. Not speaking, his hand nudges me slightly, and he waits.
Nearly a quarter mile away I finally see the deer! Three of ‘em, grazing near the tree line way out on the “big meadow”. Well past the far side of the distant barn. “A mother and two fawns...!” I whisper (as though they could hear me). Smugly pleased with my powers of observation in (finally) seeing what he’d spotted several minutes earlier.
Slowly squatting down next to me he (also whispers) “No son, not them. Look for the big buck in the tree line”. After a moment he points off a little to one side. Following his finger, the buck seems to materialize in the shade of the trees! And it’s watching us! I realize the two old males (grampa and that buck) had been watching each other. Most likely since grampa had climbed down off the wagon.
As seemed to happen several times a week, the old fella had just taught me another lesson in nature (and life). It’s not what you see at first, but what you look for that counts. Grandpa taught me more during those short summers than I learned in years (too many?) of “formal” education.
He died unexpectedly on Monday, May 26. I sorely miss him and the lessons he taught me (along with the love that came with them). Doesn’t matter a whit, that his “passing” was fifty years ago!
I Don’t Know About You..., learn any lessons from your grandpa?
Cal Teeple, founder of the Observational Cogitation Consortium may often be found three stools down from you. He may be ignored, accosted or contacted at: twinews@wayneindependent.com OR on the New Website at: wayneindependent.com.
