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22 December 2023
Way back in 1995, Bill Chattin became my "Papaw" (Southern Ohio speak for "grandfather"). His son married my mom, and-- BOOM!-- I had a new family. No awkward "getting-to-know-ya-for-awhile-until-we're-comfortable-together-B.S." Me, my brother, and my sister had a new set of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. Just like that!
"You one o' them Kirkbride kids? Yeah? Bam! Here's an ass-ton of presents! Merry Christmas. And when's your birthday?"
Of course, family means a lot more than presents-- though, let's be honest, they're pretty nice.
Between my sophomore and junior years of college I needed a new summer job. That's when my stepdad, Greg, told me of a lil' straw bailing operation my new Uncle Jeff needed help with. Why not? I got suited up like an Amish boy in a blue work shirt, jeans, and even a straw hat, and I was a part-time farmer, just like that! Our bailing crew consisted of my Uncle Jeff, Greg, lil' cousin Ryan (Rhino), lil' stepbrother Cody, me, and our tough-as-nails Papaw Bill.
Now, I'd suspected Bill was no wimp. That was obvious the very first time I saw the guy. But once I started manual laboring with him-- shit!
Here's the beginning to a common straw bailing day around 7:00 AM:
Greg: "Whaddya say, boys?"
Cody: "Man, ah bet ah can (insert any type of activity here) better than you."
Rhino: "Jeeps creeps, peeps!"
Me: "Yawn,..."
Uncle Jeff: "Whaddya say, Pop?"
Papaw Bill: "Hell, let's get started."
Bailing often consists of one guy driving a tractor that's pulling a bailer machine, which picks up cut straw from the field. The bailer shoots it out in a cube, which one guy on the wagon behind the bailer hooks and flings back to another guy who stacks them, while two little kids stand around cracking wise. At least that's how we did it. It's also how Snap, Crackle, and Pop make those prepackaged Rice Krispies Treats, but that's neither here nor there.
I was usually the hooker (heh), Greg and/or Uncle Jeff the stacker(s), and Papaw Bill the driver. The sun beat down on us, clothes soaked with sweat. Greg and I would wear long sleeved shirts so our arms wouldn't be scratched by the straw; Bill and Jeff wore t-shirts, not givin' a hoot about being scratched because they both have skin made of frickin' leather. Straw dust turning our snot black. My eyes itching because-- oh, yeah-- I'm allergic to straw! Wasn't pretty.
But I told myself it was a character builder. Sometimes I got the feeling that when we stopped for a water break there was the eternally unsaid, "Because D.J. needs one." Papaw Bill never actually called me a "yellah, liver-bellied, silky boy" to my face. He never even said it out loud. Probably wouldn't even phrase it like that, the words never actually entering his mind; but I imagined the sentiment was there every time he spit out some chew, wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and handed me the water jug. He was tough and crotchety with us bailers, but he was too nice to flat-out call me a pussy.
After we'd filled all of the wagons as much as we could-- which was always less when my feeble ass stacked-- we'd unload the straw bails into a huge stack in one of my Uncle Jeff's fields-- a mountain of straw. One of us would get on top of the often unstable wagon stack, and fling the bails to the others who'd build the new pile. It was at these moments especially that I realized that I was a wimp and, even in his sixties, my Papaw Bill was the toughest sumbitch in the world.
For every one bail I handled, Papaw Bill would take care of four or five. He wasn't showing off; he was just workin' steady. When Uncle Jeff or Greg would make him slow down, the old so-and-so still did the work of two or three D.J.s.
Even after he had a stroke, Papaw Bill was still out there with us in the fields every morning. One side of his body may not have been able to respond as much as it used to, but it barely slowed him down. When Rhino or Cody gave him crap, roughhousing and such, one hand was all Bill needed to tickle them into a laughing frenzy. Papaw Bill didn't take no guff.
After I retired from the bailing business, I unfortunately didn't see Papaw Bill as much. My loss. He lived right next door, but he had his woman, and I had,.. well, TV. When I did see him, his gravely voice always greeted me kindly, asked me about my mundane life and whatnot. But I knew that if I was possessed by an evil alien or hypnotized or something and went on a destructive rampage, Papaw Bill could take me down in two seconds flat.
He's the toughest sumbitch I'll ever know. He's my Papaw Bill.
"You one o' them Kirkbride kids? Yeah? Bam! Here's an ass-ton of presents! Merry Christmas. And when's your birthday?"
Of course, family means a lot more than presents-- though, let's be honest, they're pretty nice.
Between my sophomore and junior years of college I needed a new summer job. That's when my stepdad, Greg, told me of a lil' straw bailing operation my new Uncle Jeff needed help with. Why not? I got suited up like an Amish boy in a blue work shirt, jeans, and even a straw hat, and I was a part-time farmer, just like that! Our bailing crew consisted of my Uncle Jeff, Greg, lil' cousin Ryan (Rhino), lil' stepbrother Cody, me, and our tough-as-nails Papaw Bill.
Now, I'd suspected Bill was no wimp. That was obvious the very first time I saw the guy. But once I started manual laboring with him-- shit!
Here's the beginning to a common straw bailing day around 7:00 AM:
Greg: "Whaddya say, boys?"
Cody: "Man, ah bet ah can (insert any type of activity here) better than you."
Rhino: "Jeeps creeps, peeps!"
Me: "Yawn,..."
Uncle Jeff: "Whaddya say, Pop?"
Papaw Bill: "Hell, let's get started."
Bailing often consists of one guy driving a tractor that's pulling a bailer machine, which picks up cut straw from the field. The bailer shoots it out in a cube, which one guy on the wagon behind the bailer hooks and flings back to another guy who stacks them, while two little kids stand around cracking wise. At least that's how we did it. It's also how Snap, Crackle, and Pop make those prepackaged Rice Krispies Treats, but that's neither here nor there.
I was usually the hooker (heh), Greg and/or Uncle Jeff the stacker(s), and Papaw Bill the driver. The sun beat down on us, clothes soaked with sweat. Greg and I would wear long sleeved shirts so our arms wouldn't be scratched by the straw; Bill and Jeff wore t-shirts, not givin' a hoot about being scratched because they both have skin made of frickin' leather. Straw dust turning our snot black. My eyes itching because-- oh, yeah-- I'm allergic to straw! Wasn't pretty.
But I told myself it was a character builder. Sometimes I got the feeling that when we stopped for a water break there was the eternally unsaid, "Because D.J. needs one." Papaw Bill never actually called me a "yellah, liver-bellied, silky boy" to my face. He never even said it out loud. Probably wouldn't even phrase it like that, the words never actually entering his mind; but I imagined the sentiment was there every time he spit out some chew, wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and handed me the water jug. He was tough and crotchety with us bailers, but he was too nice to flat-out call me a pussy.
After we'd filled all of the wagons as much as we could-- which was always less when my feeble ass stacked-- we'd unload the straw bails into a huge stack in one of my Uncle Jeff's fields-- a mountain of straw. One of us would get on top of the often unstable wagon stack, and fling the bails to the others who'd build the new pile. It was at these moments especially that I realized that I was a wimp and, even in his sixties, my Papaw Bill was the toughest sumbitch in the world.
For every one bail I handled, Papaw Bill would take care of four or five. He wasn't showing off; he was just workin' steady. When Uncle Jeff or Greg would make him slow down, the old so-and-so still did the work of two or three D.J.s.
Even after he had a stroke, Papaw Bill was still out there with us in the fields every morning. One side of his body may not have been able to respond as much as it used to, but it barely slowed him down. When Rhino or Cody gave him crap, roughhousing and such, one hand was all Bill needed to tickle them into a laughing frenzy. Papaw Bill didn't take no guff.
After I retired from the bailing business, I unfortunately didn't see Papaw Bill as much. My loss. He lived right next door, but he had his woman, and I had,.. well, TV. When I did see him, his gravely voice always greeted me kindly, asked me about my mundane life and whatnot. But I knew that if I was possessed by an evil alien or hypnotized or something and went on a destructive rampage, Papaw Bill could take me down in two seconds flat.
He's the toughest sumbitch I'll ever know. He's my Papaw Bill.
artid
2012
Old Image
6_6_papaw.jpg
issue
vol 6 - issue 06 (feb 2004)
section
pen_think