A Morning In Thach, Part I

Reprint of Original of 9/26/00 Open Diary

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“Come on ‘P’, it’s time to feed and you said you wanted to help.”

My grandmother’s words reached me in the warm cavern I had created in my bed, covers pulled up over my ears against the sharp morning air. I was tempted to scrooch down even further but I knew I’d be sorry later on if I didn’t share this special time with my grandfather.

I jumped up shivering as my feet met the cold wooden floor and reached for my clothes which had been lovingly laid out the night before by my grandmother. They were as always on the dresser stool right beside my bed — shoes, sox, underwear, jeans or shorts and a shirt. I scrambled into them as quickly as I could, grabbed my sweater from the hook and ran into the kitchen to stand by the wood cook stove.

My grandfather soon appeared larger than life in the doorway, hiking up his overalls and buckling the big clips on each shoulder as he walked. The fire was just beginnning to spread its warmth through the thick cast iron walls of the stove and felt so good, but he had laced up his work boots and was headed toward the back door. I’d have to hurry or be left behind.

The backyard took on unfamiliar shapes in the early morning and even in the dead of summer the chill could cut right through my sweater. Off we went past the eerie shadows of the well and the old swing and as we passed the garden the corn stalks and bean poles looked almost threatening looming there in the thick blackness as my eyes began to adjust.

Approaching the pasture gate, my grandfather lifted it up to ease the tension as I stood on tiptoe to remove the old loop of chain from around the top of the post. Entering the pasture, the tall grass quickly surrounded me and wrapped my legs in wet morning dew, sending even more chills through me as I hurried along to keep up with my grandfather’s long stride.

I could see no detail of him as I gazed upward and to my left, only the outline of his straw hat just beginning to materialize against a sky giving way from black to dark grey now. Feeling the warmth radiating from him and smelling the damp denim of his overalls, I was enveloped in an almost overwhelming emotion. It was years later that I recognized that emotion and identified it as my first memory of love.

Swinging open the big barn doors released a rush of warm air infused with the sweet musty smell of hay. A muffled low-pitched moan from the Bessie’s stall let us know she was ready for breakfast. The large heads of the two old work mules eagerly bobbed up and down as they stretched their strong necks over their stall doors and blinked their watery brown eyes against the sudden glare of the lightbulb. I ran to each of them in turn and felt their damp muzzles against the skin of my neck as I hugged them and they ‘tickle-kissed’ me good morning. I wouldn’t hug Bessie as she was not in the best of moods before breakfast – or after for that matter.

My grandfather was already in the corn crib filling buckets with field corn, feeding Bessie first and leaving the other two buckets for me to serve the mules. I moved quickly to the tune of their big heavy hooves stomping up and down in excitement and anticipation. Once they were contentedly chewing away, I quietly and carefully moved into Bessie’s stall for the best part of the morning.