Sidetracked!

 
This one of my Small Boy and Dog stories about my grandson and our dog, Turnip. I often put these very short stories on Facebook as my status update. This one is longer and fits the theme of celebrating and savoring life, so I'm posting here  ....

SIDETRACKED

Small boy is completely fascinated with all things on our farm. Especially Aunt Kim's new dump wagon. According to him, he 'must use it for his werk' before she starts using it to cart horse manure. So, yesterday, I helped him into the wagon, tied our dogs,Turnip and Burren, to the wagon's side, and I pulled all toward the corn dryer. Because he wanted answers to his constantly asked questions:  what's that sound, (the corn dryer) what is a corn dryer, why does it make so much noise? Once at the dryer he heard and saw the fan, looked at the huge round bin all closed up and got upset that he couldn't see the corn inside. Luckily.......

...he got side tracked by this.  

Small boy is not allowed to touch this particular piece of equipment when it is connected to the farm auger. He says it's because his 'fingers will get stuck.'  Worse than that of course, but this description works without giving him nightmares. Anyway, this was sitting out near the shed unattached to any auger or tractor. The lure was too great. (He loves running his fingers through what he calls:  "corn, corn, corn, so much corn to feed Aunt Kim's a-ma-mels.")   So he asked if he could play with this corn. I said yes but only if he first told me why he isn't allowed to touch this bin chute when it's hooked to an auger or a tractor. 

     "Because my fingers will get stuck and it will hurt and I will cry and cry." 

     "You are absolutely right! Okay, since this is not hooked to a tractor or auger, you can play in the corn." 

The dogs sat by the wagon and watched as the small boy used the back of his chubby-but-not-quite-a-toddler-anymore hand to slowly brush all the corn to the left side.  

The dogs watched patiently as he slowly brushed all the corn to the right side.

They watched as he stood up, bent over at the waist and reverently brushed all the corn to the front. 

Then they got antsy. I did too. The sun was low in the sky and I hadn't taken the dogs to the pasture yet for their evening run. 

I started the normal phrases an adult uses to help a child transition, "In a few minutes it will be time to stop playing in the corn. Why don't you put some corn in the wagon to feed the goats?" 

    

 "NO!"  

Burren started whining. 

Small boy began slowly sweeping all the corn to the back. I got sidetracked myself, mesmerized by the way he used the back of his tiny hand to sweep. Who is he imitating with this motion? Does Papaw do this and I never noticed? Does my son, his daddy do this? Or is this the small one's own way to savor the sensation of golden kernels flowing over his skin? The dimples that kiss each tiny knuckle of his hand are hidden in the corn and suddenly, my mind flashed to the future, seeing him as a man brushing something away with the back of his hand. My heart caught. Turnip broke the spell when he suddenly jumped trying to pull the wagon. I yelled.

     "Turnip, stop it!"  

In reply, the hound dog's body language said:  Com'on, there are bunnies to sniff and pigeon poops to gobble. 

Without missing a slow sweep of hand, small boy called out.

    "Turnip, 'top it! You have to be quiet because Imma farmer and I have to do my werk." 

More talk of feeding corn to goats finally convinced the boy to leave the bin. He insisted on pulling the wagon to the barn. Because he is a farmer, Because he has to work. I loved how often he used his favorite word - because. The dogs loved to be moving.   

Unfortunately, the small one kept getting sidetracked. "I have to move all dis corn into the bin. Because I have to. Because I'm a farmer. Because I have werk to do."  

And then there was Honey the cat....

And a woolly caterpillar...

  

On his way to the goat barn, and much to the dogs' frustration, the boy found scattered corn stalks wilting on the lane. The small farmer had to pick up each stalk and throw it into the wagon to feed the goats. We rolled painstakingly slow to the barn, the small boy concentrating on his work, the dogs going half nutty and smelling CHICKENS in the barn. (dogs' work leans dangerously toward killing chickens)  

By the goat feeding trough, small boy methodically placed one wilted corn stalk at a time in the feeder, turning to the wagon to get another.  As he faced the wagon, I removed each stalk and hid it behind a stack of hay bales. While keeping an eye on the dogs. Do wilted corn stalks make goats sick? I wasn't taking any chances. The goats were all lined up for their unexpected smorgasbord and maa-ed their regrets as the stalks disappeared. The little farmer mumbled something about the goats eating  'real-dee, real-dee fast.' 

 I'm relieved. 

             Fooling him so easily proves he is still a small boy. 

                              For this moment, I savor his smallness, 

                                  

                                               grateful to be side tracked from the thought of his growing up. 

One more photo of the little farmer (and his dad), just for fun. And because I have to.  :)