Load of Hay

Photo by Julia M. D'June

Graydon Handerson's existence scared the shit out of me. Not sure how Bert knew the likes of this crusty old turd or that he sold hay, I guess from the days he owned Clyde’s corner store and pizzeria down off Route 47 before he married my mom. Bert seemed to know the best and worst of the local characters, worked out well for us when we needed something for the farm we couldn't buy new, which was most things. He called it a farm but it was a hobby at its center. Never made much money but he sure enjoyed the work.

Farmer Graydon sold hay and we needed some for the coming winter to get the cows through till spring. Milkers need plenty of good hay to keep production up till the grass grows green. Bert sent me and my little brother John over to the Handerson farm with the wagon for a load.

Graydon smoked like a chimney burning wet wood damped down too tight, and sat behind a dated gold flecked, laminate, metal legged table in the dining room. His hulking form occupied most of the real-estate. In the open space of the living room there was a wood stove, no couch, no tv, no furniture to speak of. Struck me as a 'beans out of the can for supper' kind of place. Nothing but the smell of an old bear’s den farmhouse with bare floors and walls filled with faded curling nudey girl pictures. No matter where you stood you'd see boobies. Three walls of headlights flashing in your eyes. Unnerving to say the least for me and my newly minted driver’s license, but down right panic desperation for my little brother who thought getting caught looking would be the end of ever looking at any girl in the face again, let alone mom.

We paid him for the hay and left his sour disgruntled face there to enjoy his breakfast beer and empty existence filled with faded boobies to count the bills.

The prospects of becoming him, of sitting around hollow in the nothingness, zilch to look forward to, scared the shit out of me.

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