Farmers' Hands
Written by Nicole Owens
Pappy and Grandpa J have the same kind of hands. Dark from the sun, with soil pushed up under their fingernails. Weathered and strong from working the earth. Farmers' hands.
Grandpa J lives two plane rides away in Pennsylvania. His white farm house perches at the end of a dusty lane. Sam and Max, his German Shepherds, catch us halfway down the lane.
Most times we visit in the summer, when the fields swirl with wheat and the corn is as tall as my brothers. Every third day is my turn to help harvest. Grandpa lifts me into the cab of the combine, where there's only room to stand, and I study the metal blades combing through the wheat. Chaff spews behind us in windy somersaults of gold.
My brothers help Grandpa J catch a pig he's sold. I have to watch from the bottom rail outside the pen, since the pigs weigh more than I do. I'm part-way jealous, but still it's nice to stay out of all the stink and the squealing.
Sometimes Grandma sends us raspberry picking. The fat berries slip off when I touch them. Our fingers and lips are stained purple when we set the half-full baskets in the kitchen. Grandma smiles and shakes her head, but she still has enough to bake two pies.
We spend afternoons racing a rusty wagon down the hill by the barn. My brothers steer wild, and I end up with dust in my teeth from tumbling down the hill. When I need some quiet, I climb in the old tire hung from the apple tree and carve slow arcs against the sky.
After supper, we rattle down the dirt road to Cousin Mike's house. All the kids get a turn cranking the handle of the wooden ice cream barrel. Sometimes Grandma brings an apple crumb pie, and I eat till my tummy aches with sweetness.
Sunday mornings, I slide next to Grandpa J on the cold wooden pew. You can hear every sound in the small country church, so Mama shushes me lots. I lean over Grandpa's stiff coat sleeve and try to read the words in his Bible.
We scrape up the noon meal while Grandpa J hooks a cart to his tractor. He tows us to a quiet pond in the woods behind his farm. The sun stays awake past nine o'clock, and we fish from a wooden boat, slapping at mosquitoes.
After almost a month of apples and chickens and harvesting, it's time from the long flights home. I hug Grandpa J so close I can feel his whiskers. He tells me I'm his best granddaughter, then winks deep and gives me a throaty laugh, since we both know I'm his only granddaughter. His hand waves a slow goodbye until we're so far away that my tears blur his fingers together.
***
Pappy's farm is a whole different flavor. It's a quiet farm; no chickens or dogs or combines. No tractors coughing smoke. Just rows and rows of fruit trees and silent vegetables, drinking in sun.
Pappy lives on an island in Hawaii, like we do. His farm is twenty minutes away on a little plane. Our suitcases bump along in his truck down the winding dirt road to his house.
On Tuesday mornings, we fill Pappy's truck with bananas, papayas, avocados, and Chinese cabbage. His stand at the farmer's market is crowded and damp with people. When it gets hot, the lady beside us slips me a tangerine from her ice box.
Some days Pappy stops work early, and we drive to the beach. We climb the waves on Styrofoam boogie boards and follow fat black crabs across the rocks. My hair ends up tangled and salty, and my cheeks rosy warm.
Fridays we visit Nana's bakery. She hands us a bag of day old bread, and we tote our poles to the koi fish lagoon. I roll little balls of bread for the hook, and yell when the pole yanks from my hands. Pappy helps me wind up the fish, wet and flapping, and we toss it back in the water to breathe.
One morning, Pappy pays my brothers and me a dime for every weed we dig in his yard. After an hour, his grass is speckled brown with holes, and our pockets jingle with coins. I buy two almond cookies from the noodle shop with my new riches: one for me, one for Pappy.
Most days I wake up early with the sun to see Pappy's straw hat disappear down the rows of papaya trees. I follow him to the edge of the trees, before his land stretches down into the valley. Mama says to wait right there, since the valley is steep and rocky, and sometimes wild animals trample Pappy's vegetables.
After two weeks of quiet and salt and sun, when it's time for us to travel home, Pappy hugs me to his canvas shirt. "Girlie," he calls me. "Girlie, you come back and see me soon." We walk to the truck, and he holds my palm in his strong, calloused hand.
Pappy and Grandpa J breathe different worlds, stretched apart by miles of forests and mountains and ocean. But their hands are the same. Blistered and sturdy from years full of living. Wrinkled and worn from loving the earth. Farmers' hands.
Pappy and Grandpa J have the same kind of hands. Dark from the sun, with soil pushed up under their fingernails. Weathered and strong from working the earth. Farmers' hands.
Grandpa J lives two plane rides away in Pennsylvania. His white farm house perches at the end of a dusty lane. Sam and Max, his German Shepherds, catch us halfway down the lane.
Most times we visit in the summer, when the fields swirl with wheat and the corn is as tall as my brothers. Every third day is my turn to help harvest. Grandpa lifts me into the cab of the combine, where there's only room to stand, and I study the metal blades combing through the wheat. Chaff spews behind us in windy somersaults of gold.
My brothers help Grandpa J catch a pig he's sold. I have to watch from the bottom rail outside the pen, since the pigs weigh more than I do. I'm part-way jealous, but still it's nice to stay out of all the stink and the squealing.
Sometimes Grandma sends us raspberry picking. The fat berries slip off when I touch them. Our fingers and lips are stained purple when we set the half-full baskets in the kitchen. Grandma smiles and shakes her head, but she still has enough to bake two pies.
We spend afternoons racing a rusty wagon down the hill by the barn. My brothers steer wild, and I end up with dust in my teeth from tumbling down the hill. When I need some quiet, I climb in the old tire hung from the apple tree and carve slow arcs against the sky.
After supper, we rattle down the dirt road to Cousin Mike's house. All the kids get a turn cranking the handle of the wooden ice cream barrel. Sometimes Grandma brings an apple crumb pie, and I eat till my tummy aches with sweetness.
Sunday mornings, I slide next to Grandpa J on the cold wooden pew. You can hear every sound in the small country church, so Mama shushes me lots. I lean over Grandpa's stiff coat sleeve and try to read the words in his Bible.
We scrape up the noon meal while Grandpa J hooks a cart to his tractor. He tows us to a quiet pond in the woods behind his farm. The sun stays awake past nine o'clock, and we fish from a wooden boat, slapping at mosquitoes.
After almost a month of apples and chickens and harvesting, it's time from the long flights home. I hug Grandpa J so close I can feel his whiskers. He tells me I'm his best granddaughter, then winks deep and gives me a throaty laugh, since we both know I'm his only granddaughter. His hand waves a slow goodbye until we're so far away that my tears blur his fingers together.
***
Pappy's farm is a whole different flavor. It's a quiet farm; no chickens or dogs or combines. No tractors coughing smoke. Just rows and rows of fruit trees and silent vegetables, drinking in sun.
Pappy lives on an island in Hawaii, like we do. His farm is twenty minutes away on a little plane. Our suitcases bump along in his truck down the winding dirt road to his house.
On Tuesday mornings, we fill Pappy's truck with bananas, papayas, avocados, and Chinese cabbage. His stand at the farmer's market is crowded and damp with people. When it gets hot, the lady beside us slips me a tangerine from her ice box.
Some days Pappy stops work early, and we drive to the beach. We climb the waves on Styrofoam boogie boards and follow fat black crabs across the rocks. My hair ends up tangled and salty, and my cheeks rosy warm.
Fridays we visit Nana's bakery. She hands us a bag of day old bread, and we tote our poles to the koi fish lagoon. I roll little balls of bread for the hook, and yell when the pole yanks from my hands. Pappy helps me wind up the fish, wet and flapping, and we toss it back in the water to breathe.
One morning, Pappy pays my brothers and me a dime for every weed we dig in his yard. After an hour, his grass is speckled brown with holes, and our pockets jingle with coins. I buy two almond cookies from the noodle shop with my new riches: one for me, one for Pappy.
Most days I wake up early with the sun to see Pappy's straw hat disappear down the rows of papaya trees. I follow him to the edge of the trees, before his land stretches down into the valley. Mama says to wait right there, since the valley is steep and rocky, and sometimes wild animals trample Pappy's vegetables.
After two weeks of quiet and salt and sun, when it's time for us to travel home, Pappy hugs me to his canvas shirt. "Girlie," he calls me. "Girlie, you come back and see me soon." We walk to the truck, and he holds my palm in his strong, calloused hand.
Pappy and Grandpa J breathe different worlds, stretched apart by miles of forests and mountains and ocean. But their hands are the same. Blistered and sturdy from years full of living. Wrinkled and worn from loving the earth. Farmers' hands.
posted by nic at 10:34 AM
2 Comments:
I love the post, it takes me back to summers when I spent time at my grandparents farm. Those are great memories that I carry with me to this day. Lessons learned will not be forgotten. Thanks for the memories.
So...when does the book come out?!
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