Vacation on the farm

 Coming inside for lunch, he'd proudly show off his dirty hands to his grandma, exclaiming, "Just like grandpa's," as she led him to the sink. And what did grandpa have you doing, she asked as grandpa himself came through the screen door. He let me put dirt from one bucket to another one using just my hands. Then I went to the stream and filled the buckets with cool water, enough to water all the dirt buckets. But first he had me dig small holes using my fingers to plant some special seeds. Then I had to hunt for earthworms, which he taught me to find by wetting the soil and digging up handfuls, looking for anything moving. It took a long time to catch a worm, but after a while there were enough in a tin can that they could use for bait to go fishing once the chores were done. "You've had a busy morning," his grandma said as he nodded and showed off his clean hands.

With summer break over, he'd ride the school bus that picked him up and dropped him off at the start of the long dirt road that led to the house. Some days he'd see his grandma waiting for him, and they'd walk slowly as he told her about his day, stopping for a minute to show her the award he'd gotten for being the student with the best summer vacation. " I'll read it to you he said.
My summer vacation was so much fun. I got up early like my grandpa did, even before the sun came up. He would make a thermos of coffee for him and a thermos of orange juice for me. We'd put on our coveralls and work boots and head for the barn where our six cows were milked, three by me and three by Grandpa, who I knew from times before he'd look for any excuse to squirt me with warm milk. When a machine broke down, as the tractor did, I'd hand him the tools he needed, usually the wrong tool, but he was patient as I learned by doing. He taught me how to drive the tractor, letting me sit on his lap and try to steer in a straight line that wasn't straight at all. Back in town, other farmers would see us and ask if those zigzag rows were some new way to yield bigger crops.
He wrote about sleeping in a tent, night fishing, filing down a horse's shoe, and shearing a sheep. He told how, when it rained, he'd take his time walking down the dirt road, stopping to play in mud puddles and arriving home looking like he'd been dipped in chocolate. He wrote about collecting eggs for his grandma, who always prepared a hearty breakfast late in the morning, even if eight o'clock is late. He wrote about the magic seeds that transformed into rows of pumpkins and the zigzag rows of corn he helped harvest. Other kids wrote about trips to a theme park or weeks spent at the beach. But only his told the stories of learning and doing, trying and succeeding. It told of the bond he had with his grandparents and squashed the notion that playing in the dirt was, well, dirty.

That award is proudly displayed on the fridge, where he put it for all to see, and Grandma left the dirty little handprints alone as a reminder of their time spent together and the grandsons' summer vacations on the farm.                                                              

Mike  2026                                                              

Mike  2026