Granddaddy’s Farm

The morning mist slowly rose above the tangled jungle ferns. A sense of expectation hung heavy in the moist air, but Bobby and I were oblivious to the danger. We were enjoying our ride upon our triceratops too much to notice the uncanny silence which had descended upon our marsh --- a silence which had even quieted the otherwise constant humming of millions of primeval insects. A terrifying roar woke us from our pleasant dreams, and we turned to find ourselves face to face with a ferocious tyrannosaurus rex. Our triceratops, forgetting we were aboard, shook his head in defiance, and prepared himself for battle. Undaunted by this display of courage, the tyrannosaurus rex bared his teeth and ---

“Chris --- oh Christopher,” my mom called from our back porch. I didn’t hear her though. That is, I pretended not to hear her. It sounded innocent enough, but you can’t trust mothers. They’re bound to sneak in their sweetest, most compelling tone when they have work for you to do.

“Chris --- where are you?” her voice rang out again.

“Doesn’t sound like dishes,” Bobby remarked.

“Doesn’t sound like she’s found out that basement window is broken either,” I replied, running her unconscious code through my mind to check the remaining possibilities.

You see, if my mom uses my middle name when she calls, then I know I’m in for trouble

--- of one kind or another. And if she squeezes my whole name, “Christopher Brian O’Connor”, into her call, then I know she means business, and I don’t waste any time getting home. ‘Cause the longer I tarry, the angrier she becomes, and I learned a few years ago that if I come home quickly, and act innocent enough, and unsuspecting, then nine times out of ten I can shift the blame onto Johnny --- he’s my brother --- and get away scot-free.

“Christopher --- where are you?” my mom called once more, just a slight touch of irritation in her voice.

“I’ll see you later Bobby,” I shouted over my shoulder as I ran home. Three calls without a “Brian” thrown in is always good news.

“There you are!” she exclaimed as I ran in from the neighbors’ yard. Then, looking me straight in the eyes, she added, “didn’t you hear me calling you?”

I answered her accusation with a look of hurt innocence, and that made her laugh. That look never fooled her, but it always made her laugh, and her laugh always destroyed her irritation. I’ve used that look to advantage a thousand times --- but it’s still good as new.

“Hop in the car you mischievous leprechaun,” my mom said, still cracking up over my theatrics, “we’re off to the farm.”

I was the last one in, besides my mom, so our pink station wagon was already full.

“Count-off,” my mom said as she started the car.

“One --- two --- three --- four --- five --- six --- seven,” came the replies, and my mom was satisfied, and started down the driveway.

Since seven was the correct number of children --- last time she counted --- she could safely assume that Timmy and Johnny and me and Betsy and Mary and Ann and little Larry were all there. But it had not always been so safe for her to make that assumption. Just last year we substituted Tommy, one of our neighbors, for Larry, and we had gotten all the way to the zoo before she discovered our joke. She didn’t seem to think it was very funny, though, and she threatened to send us all back to the reservation if we ever did it again.

Now, being sent back to the reservation was mighty appealing to us boys, but the girls would have nothing to do with it. So they always told on us before we could earn our reward. Since that day my mom has never had to check which seven she has, because as long as she has seven she can trust her girls to make sure they’re the right ones.

The trip to the farm is not long, as it’s just outside the city, but it always seems long --- anticipation of adventure stretches it out. Time dragged as we passed the stone house with the stone garage --- which lets us know we’re one third of the way there --- but it sped up again as we passed the city limits and saw the huge field of tree stumps right next to a shopping center. We never could figure out why anyone would raise ten acres of tree stumps, but that didn’t matter to us. We liked that field because it was the sign we were getting close to the farm. Only one left turn and then a right to go.

After my mom had successfully negotiated those turns (with our help, of course), the stones began hitting the bottom of the car, clattering the noisy greeting which the farm’s gravel lane always gives us. I could see the huge green farmhouse, surrounded by trees and lilac bushes, from across the field where the grass grows five feet high. That field was a perfect place to play, and it was across the memories of great fun that we looked whenever we saw the farmhouse down at the end of the long lane.

My mom had hardly stopped the car before we all piled out and ran up to the house, the smell of freshly baked cakes luring us on. The cakes were tempting, but an even greater pleasure enticed me to be the last one inside. Grandma’s screen door had a very tight spring on it, and I loved to hold that door wide open, and then run inside and let it slam. It made the loudest, most pleasant sound of any screen door I’ve ever tried --- and I’ve tried a thousand.

By chance, granddaddy was standing at the top of the stairs when I came running in, and he caught me slamming the door. He looked at me fiercely, but it didn’t work. His eyes sparkled too merrily when he scolded me.

“Christ,” he said, pronouncing his nickname for me with a short i, “how many times ---”

“Granddaddy!” grandma interrupted, spanking him from behind with a fly swatter, “I’ve told you a million times not to call Chris that! Now you go right outside and get the milk like I told you.”

Granddaddy winked at me, and then winked again, and stepped sprightly down the stairs and out the back door --- letting the screen door slam behind him.

My granddaddy loved to tease, and I think he started calling me “Christ” just to enjoy the sound of grandma scolding him. Everyone could tell that he loved being scolded, and everyone could tell that grandma loved scolding him simply because it pleased him so.

There’s only one time that I can recall when she disappointed him, and that was several years ago. I had scraped my knee on the gravel, and as grandma was nearby she had come to comfort me. But granddaddy didn’t take to his grandsons’ crying --- if they were over two --- and so he came along towards us, with a look on his face which scared me.

When he was close he bellowed out, in a cadence familiar to most, “oh, Christ’s all righty, grandma!”

She looked up at him, forgetting all about me, and burst out laughing. I never saw granddaddy look so disappointed in my whole life. He probably had expected a superb scolding for that indiscretion, but it was too good, and grandma just couldn’t control herself.

She never let him down like that again, as far as I know, and granddaddy could safely count on another scolding for having slammed the door. He was probably savoring the possible forms it might take while we were being treated to his birthday cakes.

Grandma celebrated granddaddy’s birthdays by baking three varieties of cake, to her grandchildren’s delight, and she served it to us with large scoops of vanilla ice cream.

It was always hard for me to choose which kind I wanted. Each kind had its advantages, and I weighed the possibilities in my mind for several minutes before grandma saved me from the painful situation by giving me one of each --- white, chocolate and pineapple-upside-down. I must admit that I couldn’t have thought of a better solution myself.

When I had finished my feast it occurred to me that I didn’t know how old granddaddy was, so I asked grandma.

“Seventy,” she told me.

She must have noticed my reaction, as she quickly asked, “what’s the matter?”

“Well, grandma, if granddaddy’s seventy years old that means he’s going to die soon,” I said, having recently read that the average man lives 71 years.

Grandma was momentarily stunned by my reply, but soon she was laughing. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, “your granddaddy is too stubborn to die! They’ll have to invent something new for him.”

My sadness immediately vanished, as I could see the truth in what she said. I could just imagine my granddaddy still harvesting the wheat, thirty years later. He’d be riding along, business as usual, when suddenly a bolt of lightning would flash in the sky, and then St. Patrick would be hovering in the air before him.

“Granddaddy,” St. Patrick would say in a dignified, yet pleading, voice, “come on. Everybody’s got to die some time!”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to God about that,” my granddaddy would reply, unmoved by his august company.

“Well, go ahead, I’m listening,” a voice would rumble from above.

And then my granddaddy would glance up, and see that he had his chance, and pluck up his courage (which didn’t ever need much encouragement), and say, “you see, God, the problem with your creation is its reliance on planned obsolescence. Death’s not very popular, you know, and I’ve thought a lot about how you could improve your image through its elimination. I’ve waited until now because I know this suggestion will save a lot of labor, and it’s against my politics to make improvements of that type --- but for you I’ll make an exception.”

As that imagined conversation drifted out of my mind, I hoped my granddaddy would have his chance before I was old, because I knew he could convince anyone he was right.

Pleasant thoughts of my impending immorality lingered in my mind as I walked into the kitchen for another glass of milk. I was startled out of my reverie by the sound of the screen door slamming. I turned. There was granddaddy with a three-gallon can of milk, winking at me. We all crowded around him, singing Happy Birthday, and trying to give him seventy spankings, but it hurt our hands too much, and he laughed at our feeble efforts. We were never successful in our attempts to repay him for the birthday spankings he always gave us, but we tried every year anew, thinking that eventually we would catch up to him in strength.

As we finally gave up, a new wave of cousins arrived, and Johnny and I took advantage of the ensuing confusion to slip outside and explore the field for spiders.

It didn’t take long for us to find a large spider in the process of weaving his web, and we leaned over to watch. The spider soon completed his project, strung so beautifully between long blades of grass, and then sat back to admire his handiwork --- and to wait for someone to get caught in his web.

He didn’t have long to wait. Just as he was getting comfortable, I felt a big push from behind and went falling face first into his sticky creation.

I turned to see Kathleen and Patricia, two of our country cousins, running like the wind down the lane, their long braids trailing behind them. Johnny and I were after them in an instant, but we couldn’t catch up until we were past the barn.

Now, I’m a fast runner, as fast as greased lightning, but Kathy and Patty are really something when it comes to running --- or baseball, or fishing, or anything! Their brothers have taught them right. They know how to do everything just like boys would. Why, I don’t even think I’d mind being a girl if I could be one of them!

I told them so, too, when we caught up to them, but they didn’t seem to understand that it was a compliment, so I let it drop. Besides, I was laughing so hard at Kathy’s boldness that I wasn’t even mad at her for pushing me over.

Anyway, she knows it would be pretty hard for me to be mad at her, as she and I are the same age. We were born in an off-year, as far as cousins go, so she’s the only one. Most years have five or six to boast of, but I often thank God for not having spread us out any thinner.

When all of us had caught our breaths again, Kathy suggested that we climb up to the hay loft to play. As I knew it was forbidden, and as I had never been up there before, I immediately said yes. Kathy checked to make sure no one was watching, and then we all climbed up the old ladder and proceeded to explore what to me was a whole new world. Under the arching roof of the barn was bale after bale of hay, dried to a light greenish-brown color, and smelling of the cows underneath us.

Patty led us to a corner where the hay was piled high. Just below that pile the bales had been broken, and hay was scattered all about. Patty jumped off the pile first, landing on the cushion of unbaled hay, and Kathy, Johnny and I quickly followed. We kept ourselves occupied with this new sport for some time before we heard someone coming up the ladder.

“Hide,” Kathy whispered, and we all promptly obeyed.

Peaking out from behind the bale which hid me, I saw granddaddy enter through the loft door and begin to look around. He started to come in my direction, causing my heart to race, but just when I thought he had heard me, he turned away.

He glanced around a few more times, and then muttered, loud enough for us to hear, “I’m sure I heard someone up here.”

We all held our breaths as he turned to leave, but after he had almost reached the door, Johnny sneezed. Granddaddy wheeled around and said, “who’s up here? Come on out! I know you’re here!”

I kept still, but Kathy, bold girl that she is, stepped out from behind her hiding spot and said, “it’s only me, granddaddy.”

“I should have known it’d be you, Kathy,” he said. “How many times have I told you ---”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupted, with a pout on her face and a smile in her eyes.

“Sorry’s not enough,” he gruffly replied, “now you come over here.”

Kathy knew what that meant, and she bravely took her place, bending over so that he could have a good target to spank. The next second she was sailing through the air, granddaddy laughing as he watched her land. He had used both hands to push her up from behind --- a rather unique form of punishment he must have invented.

“Punish me too,” I shouted, slipping out from behind the hay. Granddaddy laughed again as he sailed me through the air. Patty and Johnny soon joined us, and the four of us suffered our punishment for fifteen minutes.

Granddaddy finally said that he was satisfied we had learned our lesson, and we had to follow him down the ladder, wishing all the time that we had committed a greater offense.

As we walked up the lane an approaching car provided my mind with a grand idea.

“Uncle Tom’s family is here,” I told the others when granddaddy had left, “and if we enter the house with them we just might be able to get another dish of cake and ice cream --- you know how grandma gets when there’s more than thirty of us around!”

My ruse worked like a charm, as so many cousins were in the house that grandma was too busy to notice that we didn’t belong to Uncle Tom.

Grandma’s pineapple-upside-down cake never tasted better.

The general commotion in the house continued until grandma suggested that granddaddy show us all how he milks the cows. That sent twenty or thirty of us out after him, and gave the aunts and uncles a short respite from our shenanigans.

Granddaddy did show us how he milked the cows, as grandma had suggested, but he also explained how much fun it was to explore the mud hole out behind the barn, and I don’t think grandma had had that in mind, because when she came out to see what was going on, and was presented with the scene of so many of her grandchildren --- and her husband --- playing in the mud, she nearly fainted.

Granddaddy got a good scolding out of that one, and we all enjoyed it as much as he did, because grandma held him by the ear as she gave it to him.

“What’ll their parents say!” she finally exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, grandma, I’ve thought of everything!” granddaddy said as he turned the hose on and began to squirt us all clean.

When we were soaked, and free of brown ornamentation, he sent us out to run in the sun until our clothes were dry.

We spent that evening playing baseball, fifteen on a side, as our parents watched from under the trees. The game finally dissolved as families departed, one by one, with the setting sun. We sang once more for granddaddy, and then piled wearily back into our car. As the stones clattered against the bottom of the car, we waved goodbye to granddaddy from the back window. He stood at the end of the long gravel lane, and got smaller and smaller as we drove away. Just before we turned onto the road, he waved once more, and clicked his heels --- and then the tall grass of his fields hid him from view.

I have often wondered how it is that my granddaddy understands us kids so much better than other grown-ups. I once thought it was because he had a better memory, but I know now it’s even more than that. The reason he understands kids is that he never stopped being one himself.

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