My mom’s voice called from the front porch as I followed grandpa across the lawn.
“Michael, please be careful! I don’t want you falling on that and getting a cut. It’s rusty and old and I’m pretty sure you’ll get tetanus.”
Before me a rusted pile of iron stood, surrounded by twisting weeds.
“Alright, mom!” I hollered back and scuttled even closer on grandpas heels as he walked past the metal wreck.
He paused a moment, reaching out a hand and grasped a protruding rod. His face was covered by the shadow of his hat, wide brim brilliant in the afternoon sun.
“Grandpa,” I started, torn between a question and a desire to not annoy him, “What is this piece of junk anyway?”
He turned his head towards me, a large grin on his face.
“Michael, it’s an old farming plow. See this here?” He said, pointing to aged pieces of metal.
“Here is where you’d sit and hold the reigns while the horses pulled the plow along.”
I watched, completely drawn in, as his patient voice reconstructed the pile of rust.
We walked around the plow, taking it all in as he continued to teach me. My mind filled with images of the past.
And before I knew it, he was showing me up the side of an iron clad wheel and onto the creaking old seat.
“Now imagine you’re sitting there with a team of horses pulling through the dirt of your own farm.” He looked across the lane as he spoke this, and I felt his gaze bend time and space.
We both were suddenly in the middle of a dirt field, his hand rested on a horse’s neck. I flicked the reigns and we jolted forward, plowing into the rich earth.
I could hear the ground part and taste a bitterness in the air as dirt clouded in from behind.
It was at that moment, as my mother’s voice called me back to present times that I realized something of my grandfather.
He was much more than a man or magician or wizard. With his gentle strength and wisdom so earned, a Seer had he become.