Papa

The early morning sun shone brightly through the window of the small bedroom as an elderly man, dressed in gray pants, checkered shirt, and a worn fedora hat sat quietly watching a young boy sleep. He gazed out the window for a while, looking over at the corn field behind the house, occasionally murmuring to himself about what task he felt needed doing that day. Finally, as if unable to stand it anymore, he cleared his throat loudly, the boy slept on, this would never do.

 “Boy? You gonna sleep all day like yo daddy?” This in itself was untrue, the father had long since departed for work.

 A set of small blue eyes opened slowly, then seeing the old man there, the boy leapt out of bed and rushed to him.

 “PAPA !” a round of hugs ensued, while from the kitchen, an exasperated sigh was heard from the boy’s mother. This was a daily ritual, and not one she approved of. The grandfather would arrive before the household was awake, sit on the back door stoop until she got up to fix breakfast or coffee at least, then he’d come in, and sit at the kitchen table until the father awoke and came into the kitchen.

He would keep company with the father until he left for work, then move to his chair in the boy’s room until he was compelled to wake the child, after which he’d issue orders for breakfast for the boy, and have another cup of coffee while the boy was dressed and fed. The thought that this might not bode well with the child’s mother did not cross his mind, nor would it have mattered truthfully. At long last, dressed and fed, the child would take his hand and they would leave the house for the barn.

 “Boy” the child was ever addressed so, “we got to fed dees cows, den we gots to go to de garden an pick nem watermelons n cantaloupes.”

 “Yes Papa” the boy was scared of the cows, but reluctant to show it in front of the old man, his short legs scurried to keep pace. The old man opened the gate, and motioned the boy through, then closing the gate, he reached down and lifted the boy to his shoulder, and carried him to the corn crib where he deposited him into the door. Behind them, the cows surged forward towards them, eyes rolling and bellowing for their corn.

 “Fill dat basket up fo me son, dees cows is sho hungry dis mawnin.”

 The basket he referred to was a large homemade affair, woven from oak strips sometime around the turn of the century by someone referred to as “Unka Bubba”, it held roughly 2 bushels of corn, and was smooth around the top from years of use.

The boy picked up dry ears of corn while the grandfather used a large flat shovel to scoop up corn and dump into the basket. Little mice scurried away into the mountain of corn on the crib floor.

When the basket was full, the grandfather slid it to the door and stepped down, shoving hungry cows back, “git back dere Molly, here now, here now, come on.”

He strolled away from the crib with the basket, shaking corn out onto the ground as he walked, the boy stayed in his perch in the crib, peeking over the door and tossing the occasional ear at an offending cow who dared peek back. He worriedly watched the grandfather to make sure he would come back. The ever present fear of being left in the crib haunted him for once, thinking the boy was with him, the grandfather had gone back to the house only to return and find the boy sobbing inside.

 The grandfather slowly made a large circle dispensing the corn, and returned to the crib, opening the door he slid the basket inside and picked up the child again. Situating the boy on his shoulder just so, he strode over to the hay barn and again placed the boy inside. This was one of the boy’s favorite parts of the day, putting out the hay. On the south side of the hay barn, a trough ran the full length of the building, and he was small enough to walk from end to end, dragging hay for the cows, which were still busy eating the corn. He always made sure he started at the end away from the door and worked his way back to keep from getting caught by an eager cow. He finished before they arrived, and then began to hunt in the hay stored inside for mice nest. Once he’d found a whole family of small mice, pink and hairless, in a nest built inside a can of rusty bolts someone had left there. He’d proudly shown his grandfather, who took the can and without ceremony, dumped all the mice onto the ground for the barn cats that roamed freely among the buildings.  The boy had been upset for a while about that, but the grandfather had explained that the cats would care for the mice, and that explanation was enough for the boy. Years later, he found occasion to use the same excuse with his own children.

 Today however, he found no mice, and climbed up to the top of the hay bales and sat watching the cows eat.  He knew that the hogs must be fed next, but the grandfather wouldn’t allow him to assist with that, as the hogs were a particularly notorious breed, and not above attacking, so he had the boy stay in the hay loft while he fed them.  The squeal and grunting told the boy they were being fed, but he couldn’t see them from his perch. He looked down at the cows, trying to remember their names as given by the grandfather, but only remembered the names his father gave the cows when he helped him feed up in the evenings.  He longed for Saturdays when his father and grandfather both fed up, listening to their conversations. The truth be known, he was a little in awe of his grandfather, due to the fact that his grandfather was the only person he knew who would argue with his father, or dare on occasion to correct his father.  To the boy, his father was the strongest, most awesome man in the world, and he couldn’t even imagine daring to argue with him, let alone trying to correct him. Yet the grandfather seemed to be able to contradict the father with impunity.

On one occasion, he’d been allowed to accompany his father, grandfather, and uncle to the hog pen in the woods, where they were loading a large sow onto the pickup truck to take to the slaughter house. It was a cold evening, misty rain falling, and the wind blowing wickedly from the north. The uncle and his father were struggling with the hog, pulling and pushing, slipping on the wet boards, in their attempts to force the hog up the chute into the pickup. For her part, the hog was squealing in rage, and fighting tooth and nail to back down the chute. The boy stood with his grandfather outside the pen watching, the ensuing struggle. After what seemed the hundredth time, the hog slipped by the boy’s father and returned down the chute, where she was trying to break out into the big pen again. Soaking wet from sweat and the rain, the two men herded her back into the chute, his father got behind the hog and the uncle climbed up in front of her, grabbed her by her ears and began to pull as the boy’s father twisted the pig’s tail and shoved.  They strained and slowly began up the chute again.

The boy stood quietly by his grandfather’s side, not daring to say a word, when his father was in this state of mind, he’d learned to be quiet as possible. The grandfather stood watching, then stepped to the cab of the truck and removed something long and silver from behind the seat. The boy watched.

The old man walked up close to the chute, slid the tube through the rails and pressed it against the hog’s side.

There was an immediate shriek of pain, anger and rage from both the hog and the men, and all three ended up in a pile in the back of the pickup truck. The grandfather slid the drop gate closed behind them and stepped back. He looked curiously at the tube in his hand as if surprised that it had worked.

“Nevah had one of deez befo’ sho works good.” He smiled down at the boy, “Dey calls it a Hot Shot, works on batt-trees.”

Amid muffled curses, the two other men emerged from the back of the truck over the high bed-rails. They were covered in a mixture of mud, urine and hog feces, mixed with rain water, sweat and blood.

The boy saw the look on his fathers face as he stalked towards them, he looked up at the old man’s face fearfully, surely his father was going to kill the old man or worse.  He’d seen the look on his fathers face earlier in the week when he’d flushed a toy down a commode at home, his buttocks still smarted with the memory. He took a step backwards toward the truck, wishing he could help the old man, fearing for his grandfather, who seemed unaware of the pending danger. In fact the old man seemed enthralled with his newly acquired cattle prod, totally unaware of the fathers approach.

His father reached out slowly and deliberately and grasped the cattle prod, pulling it out of the grandfathers hand, he spoke with clenched teeth.

“DAMNIT DADDY! Please don’t ever do that again.”

The old man looked up, “Well, it got the hog on the truck didn’t it?”

The boy stood in awe, the grandfather was smiling at his father, unafraid, and unconcerned, he was indeed someone to be reckoned with.

 As he sat atop the hay reflecting on the incident, he heard the grandfather’s footsteps approaching, and slid down the haystack to the floor. His grandfather rounded the corner, swinging a metal bucket now empty of pig pellets, he set it on the floor and reached for the boy.

“Reckon we bess get up to ta garden an pick dem melons now boy.”

They headed across the feedlot towards the shed where the tractor sat, along with various wagons, corn picker, and other farm implements. When they were well away from the cows he set the boy on his feet, and directed him to get into the wagon.

The boy climbed into the wagon and settled himself on the floor, watching his grandfather as he primed the carburetor and then started the ancient tractor. It sputtered to life with a cloud of blue smoke, then settled into a smooth rhythm. The grandfather backed it from the shed, and over to the wagon. He parked, then lifted the tongue of the trailer and hitched it to the tractor. Then, making sure the boy was secure, he climbed back onto the tractor, put it into gear and started down the lane towards the garden. As he drove he began to sing in an off-key voice, the boy listened to the words, they never changed, and he knew them by heart, and he silently voiced them to himself as his grandfather sang.

 “said the thousand legged worm to the tater bug, has anyone seen that one lost leg of mine? If it can’t be found I guess I’ll have to hop around on the other nine hundred and ninety nine..”

He never sang anymore of the song, if indeed it was a song, but launched into another one immediately, “come little spring said the wind one day….”

Then, “you ok back there boy?”

“Yes Papa.”

“Aw-right jest making sho.”

They arrived at the garden, the old man parked the tractor, opened the gate and drove through, then stopped the tractor again. The boy hopped off the wagon, this was his job, and struggled with the gate to get it closed, it was a tall, heavy gate, built from pipe and fence wire, rather than hinges, it had wire looped around a post and drug the ground. The boy manfully pulled it across the ground and up to the latch post, straining and sweating. He managed to get it in place, and then jumped back into the wagon, “Ready Papa.”

They moved down the field a bit, the old man checking the status of the melons from the tractor seat until he felt he’d found the perfect section and stopped the tractor.

The boy jumped down and walked with his grandfather until they came to a large striped watermelon, the boy stopped and looked at the grandfather.

“Well, thump it boy” the grandfather watched as the boy carefully thumped the melon with his finger several times. He pretended to listen carefully, smiling down on the child, “Reckon its ready?”

“Yessir, I think.” He looked anxiously into the old man’s face, his own face frowned with worry, not wanting to fail the test of melon selection. As the old man smiled at him, he relaxed his face in a smile too, he had passed the test. The old man leaned over and lifted the melon easily and placed it into the wagon bed.

“Find us another un boy.” The boy scampered down the field, selecting melons which the old man loaded into the wagon. Finally, tiring the boy sat down on a melon and asked.

“Papa, can we cut a watermelon? I’m hungry!”

The old man frowned, “Boy iffen I let you eat a melon yo mama’ll skin me alive.” As he spoke he dropped a small melon across the bed rail of the wagon, “Well SHAW!!! Look a there boy, I done dropped one and busted it, now we got to eat it.”

The boy smiled and ran over, gave his grandfather a quick hug, and they began to eat the melon together, this too was a daily ritual.

As they finished their melon and headed back to the house, the boy sat atop the melons wondering what the rest of the day would hold.