Gated Pipe

The grass heavy with water. Which is given to my pant legs as they brush along curved stems, freeing them of weight - allowing good poster in its place. Irrigation pipe lays cuddled in the grass as a long, white snake, disrupting the constant of green. Piece by piece, in 30 foot sections, the pipe is disconnected from the rest of the unit; and hauled to the boundary, where lush grass turns to weed. My forearms, dense with blood, and boots, heavy with mud. Though I drag my feet, and whip my hand toward suffocating mosquitos, I am content. My uncle, spaced twelve feet in front or behind me, helps spread the weight of pipe. The only thing harder than doing this type of work, is doing it alone. I know he is busy, and he knows I am capable of doing this job myself, but he stays. Conversation dampers, as the heat persists. The landscape is loud, stable in its beauty. 

The stillness is disrupted by the crackle of car tires racing against dirt. Part of the landscape is briefly dulled by the gloom of dust following the car’s trail. As the coupe slows, stillness returns, and the dust rises into the clouds. My uncle and I stay squared up to the now parked vehicle, as the countryside surrounds a man’s silhouette. The barrier between us and the man begins to thin as he paces, knee deep, through the field of grass. He walks unhurried, with his chin low; periodically raising his gaze. He greets me with a smile and nod, and my uncle with a firm handshake. He’s in search of work. 

Good help is hard to find, and harder to keep. Rather than an application, work proves worth. And if he is not suited, a few hours of free labor won’t hurt a soul. Little words were spoken before my uncle left to tend to other work; leaving the man and me alone. We carried on tossing pipe, as I found myself impressed by his constant movement and his respect for the quietness. 

That was seven years ago. The strange man turned into Eric, and Eric turned into more than a ranch hand. 

I Believe To My Soul - Ray Charles