We'd get up at the crack of dawn and work most of the day. After a hearty breakfast, he'd get his big, old straw hat and we'd go to the shed and get out the plow. It wasn't much to look at: an old, rusty blade with smooth wooden handles. Papa would take it to the end of the field, plant the blade in the dirt, and, so I thought, let me take over. I'd look out across the endless field and say, "Papa, how can we ever get this done?" He'd look at me, smile, and say, "Don't worry. I'll help you."
We'd plow all day long, only stopping for lunch. It would be a meal that could feed an army prepared by the best cook this side of the Mississippi--my granny. After we'd finished plowing and were out of breath, he'd pat me on the back and say, "Yeah, that's my boy." Then we'd go in, sit down for a wonderful supper, and then go to bed.
Some would call this grueling labor, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. We shared more than just the experience of plowing, we shared our lives. He'd tell me about when he was younger and about growing up in the "good ol' days". He'd show me what crops would be planted where and tell me when each one would be ready to harvest. He'd tell me about farming and what it meant to him. We'd tell jokes, laugh, cry, and just have a great time. I wouldn't have traded these special times for anything in the world.
The plow is still in the shed, but it's just collecting dust. I've grown up, and Papa's grown old. These special times are no more. I still visit my grandparents, but usually only once a week. Papa and I don't talk much anymore, but just being together is special enough. When it's time to go, I kiss him and Granny good-bye and tell them I'll be coming back next week. Before I go, Papa looks up from his bed, smiles weakly, pats me on the hand, and says, "Yeah, that's my boy."