I was about 4 or 5 years old. It was summer and I was running all over the farm in typical kid fashion. In hindsight, I am bewildered that I was allowed such a full unsupervised range of this endless playground. Perhaps there were eyes somewhere, but I never saw them. Laddy, Grampa’s collie, was frolicking along with me as was my trusted beagle, Ginger. Probably more accurate, I was following them wherever it was they decided to go. On this particular day, their destination was the Stafford’s farm about a mile down the road. I followed mindlessly.
The route to Stafford’s, historically the Skinner Farm, was not direct. Ginger, in typical beagle fashion was moving forward, albeit in an S-pattern. But, we finally arrived at their destination. We took a couple of laps around the house. No one came out to investigate, so my furry friends and I moved on towards the barn. It was at that point that I heard a tractor motoring down the road from whence I had come. I stopped my forward movement to observe. Sitting high up on the old Ferguson was my grandfather, Earl Baird. He was now my best friend, so I smiled broadly, innocent in the world I was visiting. His expression was not what I had seen previously. Seemed a storm was a brewing.
“Where you been, boy?” My knees buckled and guilt arrived with a vengeance. It was then and only then that I became aware of a little thing called responsibility. It is my first recollection of such things. Perhaps the tone and inflection of Grampa’s voice carried the subliminal message. Whatever the source, I got it. “You get over here and climb up on the tractor with me!” No hesitation. I hung my head and obeyed.
The trip back to the Baird house seemed to take much longer than the trek down to the Stafford’s. However, we arrived finally. I recall that my thoughts were I hoped I would be released to go back to my play with only a verbal reprimand. Not to be. I was headed to the woodshed, my first trip, but I knew instinctively what was going to occur. Grampa took a firm grip of my upper arm and I was led unceremoniously to my fate. He stopped momentarily before entering the woodshed. We were in the old back kitchen. Grampa washed his milking machine and all the attachments there. He picked up a rubber tube which was about 12 inches long and maybe one-half inch in diameter. I learned later it was the piece that channeled the suction to the teat cup. It would be the tool that delivered my penance.
All previous relationships with my beloved grandfather had been loving and playful. His demeanor on this day was neither of those attributes. I think that element bothered me more than what was about to happen. In short, my feelings were hurt that this good man could be angry with me. Still, he marched me forward and into the woodshed where I was summarily smacked two or three good whacks with that reddish brown hose.
I need to put some things in perspective. That tiny rubber hose was the worst tool Grampa could have chosen for the task at hand. It was so flimsy it wound around his wrist more than striking me in any meaningful fashion. But, because it was him delivering the punishment for my indiscretion, it might as well have been a bullwhip. I cried, of course, not from pain, but because I had disappointed Grampa. He turned me around and took hold of both arms making me look him directly in the eyes. “We didn’t know where you were. You could have been killed or hurt badly. You can never go anywhere without telling us. Do you understand?” I nodded tearfully. I also noted that there were tears in his eyes as well. My punishment had been worse for him than me. He confirmed that years later when it became a laughing remembrance of my childhood.
It was my first and last trip to the woodshed. The lesson learned was far more reaching than just about running away. I began making decisions with a little bit more insight than before, especially if it had anything to do with my grandparents. Proactive thinking was the lesson from Grampa. Whether or not it was his intent, I don’t know, but I suspect it was. Perhaps we need more woodsheds.
Eurich is a native of Waitsfield who now lives in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
