Grandpa's Field

Grandpa’s Field
Johnny bent down and wiped the thick dark soil from between his toes. His bare feet were calloused from working in Grandpa Samuel’s field of vegetables. He looked over his shoulder, back towards the farmhouse. He could see each step he had taken. The soft dirt held each footprint like a mold, forever there if it didn’t rain again. Ahead of him, Grandpa swung his hoe into the dirt breaking up the compacted soil and pulling out a weed. Johnny mimicked each swing. He wasn’t great at weeding but he was getting better. Johnny liked the rhythm of swinging the hoe, removing a weed and swinging it again. He could look back and see what he had accomplished. It felt good to know that something was going right.
Johnny’s wet t-shirt stuck to his back and his arms burned in the hot sun. He pulled off the shirt and swung it over his head just like Grandpa did. The movement cooled the cloth and felt good to his skin when he put it back on.
Johnny swung the hoe again into the earth and thought of his parents. Back home, they were probably fighting. Johnny didn’t really understand the problems they had with each other; he just wanted them to finish whatever they were going to do. He knew about divorce. His best friend Willy had endured years of fighting parents before they were divorced. Willy now got whatever he wanted. Christmas for Willy was great in some ways. The number and neatness of presents made all of Willies friends jealous. All Johnny wanted for this next Christmas was less fighting at home.
Grandpa had picked up Johnny at the beginning of summer and brought him too the one place where he could feel peace. This time it would be for the entire summer instead of a few weeks. He liked the visits. The air was clean and Grandma’s food was great except for her pancakes. Grandpa made it clear that Johnny was too work, to earn his keep and go to church. He liked church meetings but didn’t understand the preaching. The old pastor talked about God as if anyone or anything could solve the problems in Johnny’s life. He wasn’t sure if there was a God, but he prayed each night just in case.
The first morning of the visit, Grandpa and Johnny picked out the best hoe a boy could want. The handle was short, but not too short, the blade was sharpened to a keen edge, but not too sharp. Grandpa said that a sharp blade would nick and the edge would bend.
“Hoeing is a necessity on this farm Johnny”, he said. “Choose your hoe as you would choose your words. It’s like talking to people. If your words are too sharp, they cut. If there too dull, then the work becomes hard and boring.” Johnny wasn’t sure he understood that, but he practiced on Grandma. Instead of saying her pancakes were like cardboard he chose to ask for eggs for his next breakfast.
Grandpa reached the end of his row before Johnny did. His tall frame left a large shadow down the dirt row. Johnny worked his way towards him and soon was standing in it, his row completely hoed. Grandpa wiped his brow and beckoned to Johnny too sit and rest.
“Looks like you did a good job today. You’re learning how to garden.”
“Guess I am learning something Grandpa. But some things I haven’t figured out yet.”
“Like what exactly”?
“Well, like why mom and dad fight so much. Willy says that parents just do that. But they didn’t always fight.”
“No they didn‘t. I remember when they first met. It was down the road, at Smithies gas station. They sure were in love then. Then they went to college and got jobs in the city. And bought things. Best of all they had you.” Grandpa’s big smile made Johnny feel good.
“Well I have a question for you Johnny. Why do we hoe and pull weeds? Their plants just like these carrots we’re tending too.”
Johnny looked down the row he had completed. Near him, the dirt was still dark with moisture. At the far end where he had first started, it had dried to a lighter brown. He stood up and stepped nearer his Grandpa.
“Because we don’t eat weeds”?
“Some people do eat weeds. Any plant is a weed if it’s growing where you want something else to grow. Carrots are weeds in a corn field.”
“So Dad is a ‘corn’ and Mom is a ‘carrot’?”
“Or the other way around. Or maybe they started out wanting to grow the same things but over time they planted different things. They both like ‘growing’ you though. Don’t ever lose a minute of sleep thinking they don’t love you.” Grandpa swung his hoe over his shoulder and wiped his brow.
“I think its time to get some lunch. You hungry’?
“Yea, I think so. Grandpa I have one more question. Do you believe in God”? Grandpa stopped and looked around his field. He looked down at Johnny and smiled.
“Well. Yes I do. I have my own relationship with God. He is here everyday when I hoe the garden. He is in everything. We have an agreement, God and me. I do my part by hoeing and pulling weeds, he does his part by making it rain. Between the two of us, people get fed.” he rubbed Johnny’s head, “And little boy’s grow.”
Johnny swung his hoe over his shoulder just like Grandpa did and followed him back to Grandma and a hearty lunch.

My Tenth Summer

It is hot. I mean really hot. As in H.O.T. It’s not the heat I dislike, it’s the people that come out in this heat and make me work. It’s my tenth summer of selling juices and other cold drinks at this little beach side store and it’ll be my last. I like the girls with small bikinis, but when the old women come in I wish they would wear a skirt or something. And the old men. Whew. They think their 20 again. Who wants to watch a white haired, wrinkled old man in shorts and a tank top? Not me. And they don’t buy much anyway. Their too busy watching the young girls I guess. Now talking to the girls is something else. Most of them are college snips down from the east coast and think their only good enough for Ivy League guys. I got education, just not the big league kind. I got street smarts as they call it. That’s experience you know, not book learning. Ten summers of learning. Here comes the boss, closing for now.

There’s a hot breeze coming off the sand dunes and that makes the weather really intolerable. The people are getting worse too. The heat cooks out all the good in people. I mean, the tip can is almost empty. I usually get 20-30 a day. It’s got 4.75 in it now. Pisses me off. I work hard and deserve tips. I smile when I don’t want too. I make pretty talk with the snips when I really just want to get them into bed. I tell the old women how good their summer dresses look. I earn my money. Folks, tip your server’s.

I’ve had it. Some old man came in this morning and wanted some kind of drink we didn’t carry. He was from Jersey he said and expected his brand of drink to be available down here. Lots of luck buddy. Ain’t got it. It made me smile when I told him no. Pissed him off. These old geezers think they can get anything they want. Anyways he chews me out and calls the boss who chews me out again. Ain’t my fault we don’t carry everything. Not mine at all. I am tired of all this. It just ain’t fair.

To celebrate my last summer here I made a special drink. Yep it’s all of my own making. I call it the ‘Cool Dude‘. It’s a mix of ice, sugar and anti-freeze. I save it for the next guy who wants a Jersey drink.

The Perfect Spring Day

A crack of a bat on a baseball, the yelling to the outfield to catch it, little boys running around bases make for another Little League baseball game. Today it is Runnells against Pleasant Hill, Junior League. The bright sun traveling across the sky to its eventual sitting, a few high clouds creating a shadow or two and a nice slow breeze made it about the best spring day ever.
The aluminum bleachers are hard on the bottom, but the juicy hot dog with plenty of hot peppers, and a cold drink make it bearable. The team is fun to watch in their intense way that 12 years old boys play. Everyone going to bat wants that ‘over the fence’ home run. The coach yell’s ‘just hit past the infield’ or ‘relax and watch the ball’ but they don’t hear him. Their shoulders held up, their arms arched in that perfect way, the bat at the ready to hit that homer. There two ways to lose or win a game; pitching and errors. You want the other team to have a lousy pitcher and never catch a ball. And you want your pitcher to throw a no hitter. But they do have a good pitcher today and we watch as our team gets struck out between runs. Its now bottom of the seventh inning and we‘re behind by four. A run, then an out, then another run and an out, now its two outs with bases loaded. Noah is up next and you assume the results. Noah will get out as he has in about every game played this year. He is smaller than most players on his team and slower to swing, but no less determined to hit that ‘over the fence’ homer if he can. He stands just outside the batters box, his shoulders slump, his head is down, his rests his bat on the ground. You can almost see his thoughts: another out. Noah often gets the position to be the third out. His teammates call to him, ‘go Noah, go Noah‘. The crowd yells encouragement too. He picks his head up, puts the bat on his shoulder and steps into the batters box. He is here too play.
The first pitch is high and outside. Noah waits for the next one. The second pitch is over the plate and the ump yells, “Strike”. Third time is a charm they
say, but for Noah, it’s another strike. The fourth pitch comes fast but hit’s the ground in front of the plate. Maybe the fifth pitch will be Noah’s. No, it’s inside the diamond. He has a full count of three balls and two strikes. The pitcher winds up. Noah can stand there and let it go by and hope to walk or he can swing and hope for that ‘over the fence’ home run. He swings. It fouls over the head of the ump. Noah seems encouraged. Next pitch. He doesn’t swing. “Ball four’ the ump yells. His team yells “good eye Noah” as he tosses the bat back towards the dugout and trots to first base. The next batter connects on the first pitch. The ball whips past the short stop as he misses the easy catch. The third base runner gets in with another run and Noah runs to second. A time out is called to adjust first base. Noah takes off his safely helmet and wipes his head. He has come along way these last two years. At one time he was in a wheelchair and taking chemo. Today stubble of recovering hair shows his progress. Each game this season has shown Noah’s improvement as a player too.
Noah puts his helmet back on as the next batter comes up. The pitcher is getting tired and the batter is sent to first base on the first four throws. Third base runner takes a stroll to home and Noah trots to third. The team needs another run to win and now its two outs with the batter having a full count. The batter fouls. Noah keeps his eye on the ball and leads off the plate waiting for his chance. The next pitch is wild and the catcher misses it. Noah runs.
The catcher throws off his mask and scrambles for the ball. Noah is running as fast as he can. The crowd is yelling. The catcher finds the ball and heads for the plate. The ump is standing ready to call it, his eye on the rubber mat. Noah starts his slide and the dirt flies as he comes into home. The catcher swings his glove towards Noah. “Safe” the ump yells. Noah gets up, the batter pounds him on the back and everyone hollers in excitement. He has a smile, a big one, maybe the first one this season. He made the winning run. The game is over.
The sun is close to sitting. The hot dog is long forgotten. A young cancer survivor shows his spirit. It’s the perfect spring day.