he’d swat it on the snout and yell “Bad!” as loud as he could. The dog would tuck its tail down and back off with the most awful hurt expression.
Raccoons were another matter. “Don’t swat them on the nose,” I warned him. “They’re liable to bite your paw off if you do.”
The Old Boy and Cubby went fishing together, too. He was an avid sportsman, both at home and at a cabin he built in the Maine woods. He was also active in the preservation of nature, though that idea didn’t mean much to Cubby at his age. He had spent many years on his town’s conservation commission. In fact, the year before they had named a small body of water in his honor: Easy Ed’s Peeper Pond. He took Cubby there to catch bluegill. He loved the name, but it didn’t help with their fishing. They would stay there all day with nothing to show for it but sunburn and bug bites. Not even a nibble. Luckily, the Old Boyhad a stuffed fish at home, and he showed Cubby what might have been.
Easy Ed wasn’t the only grandparent who loved the outdoors. My dad—John senior—spent as much time as he could in the woods, and he owned a whole mountaintop in rural Buckland, Massachusetts. He had a hundred acres up there, with a big tractor and a shed full of machinery to take care of it. Cubby was happy to help.
My father and Cubby spent hours chopping firewood and stacking it under the deck for winter. Cubby helped with the big two-handed saw, working it back and forth to take down a tree and strip off the branches. My father never used his chain saw when Cubby was around. “Too dangerous,” he said, “and the old ways work just fine.” His own grandpa had been a county agent for the Department of Agriculture, helping farmers in northwest Georgia. They worked slowly and carefully, with the same hand tools his Grandpa Dandy had used back on his farm.
The two of them managed the forest, repaired the old stone walls, and even planted a vegetable garden. They caught toads, watched birds, and picked rocks out of the meadow. My dad taught Cubby the names of all the plants in the yard, which Cubby was proud to repeat to me. Of the vegetables they grew, his favorite was squash. Not for the taste, mind you, but for the shape. He’d pick up big ripe squashes and swing them around his head. Grown-ups may have seen them as food, but he imagined squash as war clubs, rockets, and missiles. They were the best thing going, until the tomatoes started to rot.
Then there was the machinery. Besides the tractor, my father had a Honda four-wheeler that he used to ride around the property. He towed a wagon with his tools and used a chain to drag firewood back to the house. Cubby loved to ride it with him, but after a few trips he wanted to do more.
“Let me drive,” he said. That was an audacious suggestion, because he was barely three feet tall. “Okay,” his grandpa told him.“Put your hands on the bars and I’ll help you steer.” Cubby grinned real wide and squealed with delight as they motored across the meadow. “One day you’ll be able to drive it all by yourself,” my father told him. Cubby never forgot.
Sometimes my son would climb the trees to survey the countryside. He wasn’t very tall yet, so being in the treetops gave him a real advantage. He also liked climbing because it was one of the few places my father couldn’t follow him. His arthritis was too bad for that. My dad would stand on the ground, watching closely and making sure Cubby got down safely.
Cubby was almost out of diapers the first time Little Bear left him with my father overnight. I was at the car auctions, she had to be out late, and my dad was eager to keep him. When bedtime came, my father and Judy led him down to the guest room, in a cozy corner of the finished and decorated basement. Nice as it seemed to my father, there was no way Cubby was going to stay down there. Monsters eat kids in basements. Wild “aminals” might come in the windows. Even at two years of
Raccoons were another matter. “Don’t swat them on the nose,” I warned him. “They’re liable to bite your paw off if you do.”
The Old Boy and Cubby went fishing together, too. He was an avid sportsman, both at home and at a cabin he built in the Maine woods. He was also active in the preservation of nature, though that idea didn’t mean much to Cubby at his age. He had spent many years on his town’s conservation commission. In fact, the year before they had named a small body of water in his honor: Easy Ed’s Peeper Pond. He took Cubby there to catch bluegill. He loved the name, but it didn’t help with their fishing. They would stay there all day with nothing to show for it but sunburn and bug bites. Not even a nibble. Luckily, the Old Boyhad a stuffed fish at home, and he showed Cubby what might have been.
Easy Ed wasn’t the only grandparent who loved the outdoors. My dad—John senior—spent as much time as he could in the woods, and he owned a whole mountaintop in rural Buckland, Massachusetts. He had a hundred acres up there, with a big tractor and a shed full of machinery to take care of it. Cubby was happy to help.
My father and Cubby spent hours chopping firewood and stacking it under the deck for winter. Cubby helped with the big two-handed saw, working it back and forth to take down a tree and strip off the branches. My father never used his chain saw when Cubby was around. “Too dangerous,” he said, “and the old ways work just fine.” His own grandpa had been a county agent for the Department of Agriculture, helping farmers in northwest Georgia. They worked slowly and carefully, with the same hand tools his Grandpa Dandy had used back on his farm.
The two of them managed the forest, repaired the old stone walls, and even planted a vegetable garden. They caught toads, watched birds, and picked rocks out of the meadow. My dad taught Cubby the names of all the plants in the yard, which Cubby was proud to repeat to me. Of the vegetables they grew, his favorite was squash. Not for the taste, mind you, but for the shape. He’d pick up big ripe squashes and swing them around his head. Grown-ups may have seen them as food, but he imagined squash as war clubs, rockets, and missiles. They were the best thing going, until the tomatoes started to rot.
Then there was the machinery. Besides the tractor, my father had a Honda four-wheeler that he used to ride around the property. He towed a wagon with his tools and used a chain to drag firewood back to the house. Cubby loved to ride it with him, but after a few trips he wanted to do more.
“Let me drive,” he said. That was an audacious suggestion, because he was barely three feet tall. “Okay,” his grandpa told him.“Put your hands on the bars and I’ll help you steer.” Cubby grinned real wide and squealed with delight as they motored across the meadow. “One day you’ll be able to drive it all by yourself,” my father told him. Cubby never forgot.
Sometimes my son would climb the trees to survey the countryside. He wasn’t very tall yet, so being in the treetops gave him a real advantage. He also liked climbing because it was one of the few places my father couldn’t follow him. His arthritis was too bad for that. My dad would stand on the ground, watching closely and making sure Cubby got down safely.
Cubby was almost out of diapers the first time Little Bear left him with my father overnight. I was at the car auctions, she had to be out late, and my dad was eager to keep him. When bedtime came, my father and Judy led him down to the guest room, in a cozy corner of the finished and decorated basement. Nice as it seemed to my father, there was no way Cubby was going to stay down there. Monsters eat kids in basements. Wild “aminals” might come in the windows. Even at two years of
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