Country Recollections

Gramps and me were a team.

He’d wear overalls

and a yellow straw hat.

He’d pluck a piece of straw

from a bale of hay,

place it between his teeth just so,

stretch his hands upward to touch the sky,

eyes scanning the countryside.

For miles, whichever way you’d look;

it was all his.

I’d stand next to him, belt high,

biting my own piece of straw,

looking at the land,

mimicking his intensity.

Together, we’d board the old John Deere,

allowing me to crank it up,

and from twin pipes,

black smoke would belch into the air.

The old Deere would shimmy, rattle some,

then settle into one volume: loud.

Lindy, my collie, would bark excitement,

knowing what lay ahead.

Time to “head ’em up, move ’em out,”

Gramps would declare with his deep voice.

Before long, a mile or so from home,

John Deere bouncing steadily,

forty Guernsey’s awaited us,

as did the old red barn.

Lindy does her part,

barking out orders, giving direction,

until the cows are herded together.

We parked the old Deere,

milked the cows,

as Lindy stood watching for strays.

The morning passed.

The sun reached noon-time high,

as we herded the cows back to pasture.

Once again, sitting atop the old Deere,

Lindy, lying prone, eyes always watchful;

we made our way back home.

Billowing clouds of snow white,

backed by pure blueness,

found Gramps and me admiring the land,

and all it held.

and we knew we had done good.

Today,

Gramps is buried on the hill,

overlooking all that was his,

and another day begins.

I wake my grandson,

who, dressed like me,

is eager as I first was.

He calls to Little Lindy,

as we climb aboard the old John Deere.

We view the land which surrounds us,

and before the day is over,

we’ll know we’ve done good, too.