My name is Karlus, and I died when I was 26 years old.
It’s an almost universal truth, at least in the white-collar world, that 5pm on a Friday is a sacred time. Any work that isn’t urgent gets pushed off until the next work day. Professionals of all stripes peer anxiously out of their offices and cubicles, waiting for their boss to leave so that they can make a break for the freedom of the weekend. Last minute plans are made, or broken, as we schedule our busy lives around our weekly forty-eight hours of freedom.
That’s the situation I found myself in the day before I died. My boss was a pretty chill guy. He liked his weekends as much as the rest of us and was generally gone by 4pm on a Friday afternoon. When the clock ticked over to 5 I finished an email to one of our general contractors, shut down my company issued laptop, and headed home. My truck was hot after baking in the Oklahoma sun all day and as per usual the first ten minutes of my commute were spent cursing at the A/C to hurry up and get cold. When I made it to my house I only stayed long enough to drop off my laptop and grab an overnight bag I’d prepared that morning before leaving again. It was the weekend, which meant that I was going to the farm. I was going home.
I was born in a small Oklahoma town and I grew up bouncing between my parents’ house and my paternal grandparents’ ranch an hour away. Every weekend I’d load up in the truck with my Dad and make the drive down so that I could mow yards, feed cattle, roam around on the ATV, fish, and hunt. Mom was still in college at the time and my father travelled for work so during summer break I would stay on the ranch for months at a time. My grandparents loved to have me, and it gave my parents a break. I rode my first horse when I was six. I learned to plow when I was eight. At ten years old, I was considered grown-up enough to drive the old farm trucks to the hay barn to load them up and go feed in the closer fields unsupervised. My Grandfather taught me how to weld, frame a home, fix a fence, deliver a calf, and shoot a gun. Granny taught me how to sew a button, cook, milk a cow, and grow a garden. They both taught me how to treat people with respect, the beauty of a sunset, and a love for the land and the people that work it. It was probably the best childhood a kid could have, until it wasn’t. When I was thirteen my parents were killed by a drunk driver. My grandparents, of course, took me in. They never even hesitated. I was family and I needed help, so they helped. That’s just how they were, it’s what they did.
Being an orphan in a new school wasn’t as bad as books and movies make it out to be. I got teased a few times for having no parents, but a steady diet of good food and physical labor had left me tough enough, both mentally and physically, to deal with the bullies. Granny always expressed her disapproval but was overruled by my grandfather. For good or ill he was convinced that “boys will be boys” and sometimes a good “whoopin” would solve problems. He wasn’t completely wrong, after a few black eyes and a lot of skinned knuckles the taunts stopped. I never was the most outgoing kid in my class, but I had plenty of acquaintances to hunt and fish with growing up.
Neither of my grandparents had finished high school and they were adamant that I would go to college. Life as a farmer isn’t glamorous. It’s hard, dirty, and dangerous work and they raised me with the understanding that I would not follow in their footsteps. It was understood that not going to college wasn’t an option for me. I’d go, I’d do my best, and I wouldn’t spend my adult life wondering if this was the year the bank took back all the land if the hay didn’t get enough rain or if the price of beef fell. So, I put my head down and studied. It wasn’t easy to wake up at 5am every morning so that I could feed cattle in the winter before heading to school. Or to get shanghaied into helping rebuild a motor as soon as I got home from school with a backpack full of homework. I did it, though. I owed it to my grandparents. They were family and the work had to be done, so I helped. It’s how they raised me, after all.
My hard work paid off and I was awarded a full tuition scholarship to one of the state schools. The day I packed my bags to take the three-hour drive to school was the day I learned the meaning of the word bittersweet. The smiles on their faces showed how proud they were that I was moving on and growing up. I had my old pickup loaded up with everything I’d need for dorm life and was finding excuses to delay my departure while knowing that delaying the inevitable just made it worse. They knew what I was going through, of course. They both hugged me and told me how proud my parents would be of the man I’d become before Granny handed me a few sausage biscuits as a snack for the road and unceremoniously kicked me out. But not before telling me that I’d need to be back next weekend to help with framing the new hay barn, of course. I think I spent the first hour of that drive crying.
They wrote me actual letters while I was at school. Just inconsequential things like the weather, details on a piece of property that had come up for sale, the cattle getting out, or how the winter wheat was coming along. I’d read them while sitting in in a back corner of the library and imagine that I was back on the farm. On particularly homesick days I could almost feel the hay scratch along my arms, feel the frosty grass crunch under my boots, smell the leather of gloves and the earthy scent of cattle and I’d fight back tears.
I made friends, of course. We formed a little clique, a whole band of misfits that were away from home for the first time, scared, and uncertain of the future. We bonded over cheap pizza and the cheaper beer that we’d bribed upper classmen to buy for us. We shared the joys of acing tests and the agony of breaking up with our girlfriends and boyfriends. The few from out of state would pile into their cars and follow me to the farm on long weekends, just for a change of pace. My grandparents didn’t mind, they were happy to meet my friends and there was always room for one more around the dinner table. Those first years in college were halcyon days full of personal growth.
In the spring of my senior year of college, just a few months shy of graduation, my grandfather died of a sudden heart attack. His health hadn’t been great for a few years, and I knew logically that he wasn’t going to live forever. That was small consolation when I had to face the fact that the man who had raised me as a father was gone and that I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. His death hit me harder than my parents had, in all honesty. I’d had years to get used to the idea they had died. I had a drunk driver to hate for killing them. There was something tangible on which to focus my anger. When my grandfather died there was none of that. Old age is just a fact of life and hating it, or denying it, is futile. No matter how badly it hit me, though, it hit Granny far worse. She looked lost for weeks after the funeral, and small wonder. They’d been married for 52 years. She must have felt like she lost half of herself that day. The agony on her face during the funeral broke my heart all over again. I was a pall bearer, which some of my extended family thought was macabre. Fuck them. That man carried me through my teenage years and into adult life. The very least I could do was carry him to his final rest.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Thanks to my friends and some understanding professors at school I managed to graduate with a degree in Construction Engineering. The first thing I did was take a job with a construction firm closer to the farm. It was still an hour drive, but I wasn’t going to let regret haunt me going forward. I spent almost every weekend at the farm doing what I’d done my entire life. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I spent four years of my life learning how to not be a farmer and now I couldn’t wait until 5pm on Friday when I got to dash to my truck and spend my forty-eight hours of freedom hauling hay, plowing, fishing, and sitting with Granny listening to stories about older and simpler times. I know she appreciated the company. It was a big house and now that the kids and grandkids were grown and living their own lives she was alone for the most part. My uncle, Terry, and the hired hand, April, stopped in every day and had breakfast, and sometimes lunch, but it was the moments of stillness and silence between those visits that worried me.
None of that was on my mind when I pulled off the highway and heard my tires crunch on the gravel road. I cracked my window and breathed deeply. The stretch of road had a huge stand of honeysuckle growing along the fence line and it perfumed the evening air as I got closer to the farm house. It was a rambling single-story house that had originally been built in 1931 and added to over the years. I parked under the huge burr oak by the shop and grabbed my bag before heading to the farmhouse. Granny, of course, met me at the door. She knew I was coming and heard the truck when I pulled up. After giving her a gentle hug, I tossed my bag into the spare bedroom and sat at the kitchen table while she made me supper.
My friends from school had always been amused at my refusal to eat before heading to the farm. A few of them had lightly chastised me for making my grandmother cook for me when I was perfectly capable of stopping on the way and buying my own food. That lasted until they took their first trip to the farm and realized that nobody could make Granny do a damned thing she didn’t want to do. She fed me when I got home because it was her way of taking care of me, of showing me that she loved me, of letting me know that I was home. If I’d refused it would have hurt her feelings. So instead of a fast food burger, eaten in the truck, I feasted on corn on the cob, cantaloupe, and squash alongside some made from scratch biscuits and leftover fried chicken. She sat with me as I ate and asked me about work and my social life, and I asked her about the farm and the garden. As far as last nights on Earth go, it was pretty much perfect.
The next morning, I woke up refreshed and meandered into the kitchen after a quick shower. Granny was just taking the biscuits out of the oven, so I started setting out plates and silverware. Just as I was finishing my uncle, Terry, and our hired hand, April, showed up.
April was my age and had been working on the farm since she graduated high school. Her mother was an alcoholic, her Dad was completely out of the picture, and April had used the FFA in high school as an outlet. She met my grandfather when he found out that there was a student in our high school that wanted to show animals but didn’t have the money to buy them or the space to care for them. So, true to his nature, he came to school one day and told April that if she wanted to show a calf he’d give her one, and the space to take care of it. Farm work is tough, both physically and mentally, and I think he expected her to quit. She was at the farm every day for the next three years taking care of her animals, rain or shine. When she graduated from high school he offered her a full-time job.
“Well, look at who decided to join us. Didn’t think we’d see you up before 9.” said April before she leaned over my shoulder and stole the biscuit off my plate. Joke was on her, I hadn’t buttered it yet.
I gave her a mock glare and scoffed, “Just because I’m a city boy now doesn’t mean I went soft.”
My uncle shook his head at us, no doubt amused at the byplay. April and I had been somewhat antagonistic toward each other during high school. My parents had died a few years earlier and I was still getting used to the smaller school and living on the farm full time. She didn’t have time for a moody teenage boy that wanted to mope instead of getting on with his life and appreciating the fact that at least somebody out there cared for him. I didn’t appreciate some upstart girl pointing that out to me. For the first year or so we were oil and water. Now, though, the teasing was affectionate. We’d grown to be more like siblings. I may have lost my parents, but she never had hers. Grown-up me couldn’t blame her for latching on to the first family that ever accepted her.
Terry finished plating up his food and after Granny said grace he said, “What’s your plan for today?”
I finished chewing my biscuit, generously buttered and slathered with honey, “Depends on you and April. I was planning on hunting a few hogs around dark, but I was going to tag along today and help with whatever you two were getting into.”
“Good,” April said, “you can turn hay. There’s twenty acres that needs to be finished on the Prewitt place. Might be rain next week and if we don't get it turned and baled this weekend we’ll be in trouble.”
“So, you’re saying that you need me to bail…you out?” I quipped. That earned me a laugh from Granny and a glare from April. Some people can’t appreciate a good pun. At least not when it’s at their expense.
Ranching runs on hay and the adage “make hay while the sun shines” isn’t just hyperbole. While you can graze cattle in the warmer months, once winter hits you must feed them. It’s not as simple as just cutting grass and throwing it in a pile for later, either. If the hay isn’t properly cut and dried before storage it will mold. Mold leads to sick livestock. No rancher likes sick livestock.
Turning hay is easy, just point the tractor along the windrow and drag the gear over the top of it. It’s a job that allows for a lot of time to think and with a little practice it’s possible to find yourself in state of Zen, where time just passes over you. I had hit that state when I heard the truck horn honking, my uncle signaling me it was time to head back to the farm house for lunch. April had taken off earlier to get a bucket of chicken from a restaurant along the highway and Granny had made some snap peas and fried squash to go with it. We were sitting at the table, eating and joking, when Granny gasped in pain, grabbed her head, and slipped out of her chair. To this day, I don’t know if it was a stroke, an aneurysm, or something else.
My memories from here on out are fragmented in my head. Shattered like shards of a mirror thrown on the ground, each one containing a sharp and vivid image but having no continuity between them. I remember kneeling over her on the floor and wondering when the woman that helped raised me and shape me got to be so very small. I remember screaming cries and trying CPR to keep air flowing into her lungs and the feeling of her ribs splintering underneath my hands as I did chest compressions. I remember my Uncle sprinting to the phone, faster than I’d ever seen him move, and dialing the rural ambulance service.
Most distinctly, though, I remember feeling something well up deep inside me, asking to be let out as my mind refused to accept that she was dying. The feeling was somehow constrained. I internalized the feeling and as I tried to push it out it felt almost like a thick layer of plastic wrap was blocking it. I. Would. Not. Be. Denied. Slowly the tension holding feeling back lessened, and it began to spill out of me. Drips of blood from my nose fell onto Granny’s blouse as I continued the CPR. A sharp torrent of pain tore through my head as I willed my Grandmother to live, to not leave me, to keep fighting. There was an intense tugging sensation in my head and chest, followed by an even more excruciating pain, and feeling exhausted. As I continued CPR and my mental exertions I felt that power move through my arms and down to my Grandmother. A sense of peace washed over me as I felt the force drain out of me and into her. My last memory, before I was overcome with blackness, was of her eyes opening and my dear Grandmother taking a deep breath.