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DESTINATION OCCIDENTAL - THE RANCH
Grandpa owned 10 acres
in the hills outside of town.
The road up was rough and dusty.
Reaching the property
We’d swing wide the creaky steel farm gate.
Walking the rest of the way.
Past the old well.
Dipping in for a drink.
The cold water tasted of rust.
Forget spinach, one iron fortified, ladle full
Watch out Popeye!
The barn with sun-bleached wooden walls,
roofed by corrugated steel panels,
Smelled of old motor oil,
years of tinkering and woodworking projects.
Its sole occupant, an ancient John Deere tractor
Grandpa would fire it up, back out slowly
Rolling back the years
Becoming the Michigander farm boy of long ago
Riding the fences, surveying his land
Clearing brush
While big sister and I would find our small suitcases
kept there just for us
Filled with little trinkets and toys
What I’d give to see the contents of mine again.
Sitting on the cool barn floor
We’d play for what seemed hours.
Sometimes I’d try and help grandpa
I loved being by his side
However, my middle name was “liability’
As was evinced on several occasions.
Once, while camping
I helped put up the big canvas tent
I steadying the tent stakes
Grandpa hammering them into the ground
Placing my finger on top of one and “BAM”
I have the scar still, it reminds me of him.
I helped him paint a house once
Licked the oil paint laden stirring stick
Followed by a trip to hospital, stomach pump.
My granddad must have cringed when I’d utter those words
“Can I help?”
We stopped going to the ranch
The land was sold.
Somebody else's house is there now
The property now unrecognizable
But the memories linger long
Of those carefree days
In my grandpa’s company.
in the hills outside of town.
The road up was rough and dusty.
Reaching the property
We’d swing wide the creaky steel farm gate.
Walking the rest of the way.
Past the old well.
Dipping in for a drink.
The cold water tasted of rust.
Forget spinach, one iron fortified, ladle full
Watch out Popeye!
The barn with sun-bleached wooden walls,
roofed by corrugated steel panels,
Smelled of old motor oil,
years of tinkering and woodworking projects.
Its sole occupant, an ancient John Deere tractor
Grandpa would fire it up, back out slowly
Rolling back the years
Becoming the Michigander farm boy of long ago
Riding the fences, surveying his land
Clearing brush
While big sister and I would find our small suitcases
kept there just for us
Filled with little trinkets and toys
What I’d give to see the contents of mine again.
Sitting on the cool barn floor
We’d play for what seemed hours.
Sometimes I’d try and help grandpa
I loved being by his side
However, my middle name was “liability’
As was evinced on several occasions.
Once, while camping
I helped put up the big canvas tent
I steadying the tent stakes
Grandpa hammering them into the ground
Placing my finger on top of one and “BAM”
I have the scar still, it reminds me of him.
I helped him paint a house once
Licked the oil paint laden stirring stick
Followed by a trip to hospital, stomach pump.
My granddad must have cringed when I’d utter those words
“Can I help?”
We stopped going to the ranch
The land was sold.
Somebody else's house is there now
The property now unrecognizable
But the memories linger long
Of those carefree days
In my grandpa’s company.
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