A summer morning can present just the right blend of challenge and accomplishment for an 8-year-old grandson.
Photo Above: Eli uses a knife to gather chicken of the woods mushrooms. © Bruce Ingram.
“What’re we going to do today, Granddaddy,” asks Elaine’s and my 8-year-old grandson, Eli. It’s an early June morning here on our rural land, and my wife has charged me with occupying Eli (whose parents are at work) as she prepares for company coming later in the day.
“We’ve got chores, boy,” I say. “Let’s get started.”
Our first task is to look for wild edible mushrooms, hopefully finding enough for lunch. We head for an ash stump in our woodlot and as we near it, Eli spots a chicken of the woods growing on the stump’s side.
“We found one here last year, too,” he marvels.
“Yep,” I respond. “Do you remember how to use a knife to cut off the mushroom, so that its roots (mycelium is too big a word for now) will grow back, and we can get more chickens here?
“I think so,” he responds. With intense concentration, he runs the knife under the base of the fungi and severs it.
“Good job,” I praise. “Go take it to E-mama [his name for Elaine] and meet me at the chicken run. We’ve got to clean the coup.”
Upon our arrival there, I ask Eli which job he wants and he enthusiastically responds with cleaning the plastic mats. That’s a dirty job as it consists of scrubbing off manure and dirty straw, and, frankly, I’m initially puzzled on why he wants it.
But my puzzlement turns to understanding several minutes later when Eli, with the water pressure turned to maximum, is chortling with joy as he sprays the mats and himself. I release the chickens into the backyard, hang the wet mats to dry, and Eli and I head for the garden.
The Surecrop strawberries are ripe, and my grandson and I negotiate a deal where we can each eat no more than two strawberries and also promise that we each won’t tattle to E-mama about our respective transgressions. Strawberries picked—and eaten—I send Eli to the compost pile to gather straw.
Chickens are utilitarian creatures. Their meat and eggs feed us throughout the year, they weed with their beaks, fertilize the garden with their droppings during the winter, and the composted straw from the two henhouses serves as mulch for our garden plants come summer. I explain all this to my grandson as we mulch the zucchini and Better Boy tomatoes.
By this time, the henhouse mats are dry, and Eli and I arrange them in the henhouse, put fresh straw on top and corral the chickens. I give the boy a quick chore—use clippers to trim the weeds along the two chicken runs so that the electrified wires encircling will function properly and keep predators at bay.
Our last job is to feed the half dozen month-old chicks in the basement. Charlotte, our perennially broody hen, is sitting on only four eggs. So a neighbor, hearing of that non-ideal situation, has kindly given me some of her chicks so that I can maintain our flock.
Chores finished at last, Eli and I go inside for lunch. Our grandson gives Elaine an overview of his work performance, and she asks him if five dollars is a fair wage for two hours of work. Having not heard of the minimum wage law, Eli agrees to the amount. We sit down for a meal of turkey burgers—with mushrooms—and wild blackberry cobbler for dessert.
Nothing earth shattering has happened this day; in many ways, just a typical rural mountain morning. But it is one I will cherish the rest of my life. I doubt that Eli will remember this day precisely, but I hope—and believe—that he will recall as an adult that he and his granddaddy had many grand times together.
The story above first appeared in our May / June 2023 issue.
