Michael Langlois - Bad Radio

I doubt many people know what their last act will be before they die, but it amused me to think that mine would be as mundane as storing hay for a winter I’d never see, back on the same farm that I grew up on nearly a century ago.

I lifted another hay bale out of the bed of my ancient blue pickup, enjoying the fragrant smell of high summer coming off of it in the cool September air. Each square bale was about the size of a footlocker, and weighed a little over sixty pounds, which is pretty amazing for what amounts to a brick of dried, hollow grass. A single piece is too light to feel in the palm of your hand. A stack of it can kill a man.

I’ve never been a farmer. The grass grows and I cut it down, mostly because no matter how old I get, I still can’t let the farm grow wild and disorderly. My father instilled that into me over eighty years ago, and it’s no less a part of me today.

Being “not a farmer” was pretty much my entire self-identity growing up, when I spent all my time stewing in directionless anger and clutching my reflexive rebellion to my chest with all my might, just waiting to lash out at every opportunity.

If it hadn’t been for the war, I’d likely have run away and spent the rest of my life in jail or worse. As it was, when Pearl Harbor was hit, the whole country lit up like a live wire, and me right along with it. All that restless anger finally found a focus and became an obsession that eventually carried me halfway around the world. But that was all a long time ago.

I squinted up into the clear morning sun at the open doors of the loft, thinking about the kid I used to be, and how much he didn’t know. The miles traveled only to end up right back on the same soil almost a century later. I marveled at the enormity and symmetry of it all.

I took aim at the ten-foot-square hole in the face of the second floor of the barn, some thirty feet off the ground, and tried hard not to miss. If I did, the wire would snap and the bale would burst open on the side of the barn, raining hay all over the place. That wouldn’t be tidy, not the way I wanted to leave things.

I leaned back just a hair and threw the bale underhand, my shoulder and biceps flexing smoothly, effortlessly. The dense greenish-gray block soared into the air, silhouetted against the pale blue sky. It passed neatly through the second story hay loft doors, just under the rope-and-pulley hoist that I should have been using, and then tumbled back into the shadows with a thump.

I gave a little smile of satisfaction. Not bad for an old man of eighty-six years. Not that you could tell from the outside that I’m a day over thirty, but from in here? I feel every single one of them. But today that’s just fine.

I emptied the truck’s bed, putting a dozen bales into the loft, one after the other. Once that was done, it was time to go upstairs and stack them neatly against the back wall to keep them out of the winter weather. It wasn’t necessary, since I wasn’t planning to sell these, but years of habit wouldn’t let me walk away from a job half done. It just felt wrong. The thought that somebody would one day get up into that loft and think that I just left things a half-assed mess because I was too lazy or stupid to do it correctly was intolerable.

I walked to the ladder a little ceremoniously. I could have jumped right up there, it certainly would have been quicker, but there’s no way to do it that doesn’t make you look like a jackass.

You’re gonna land in a heap, like you were shot out of a cannon for thirty feet, and then you have to pick yourself up, all covered in dust and hay. I did it a few times for Margaret, and I’ll tell you she laughed until she cried.

I remember looking down at her from the loft with hay sticking out of my hair and grinning like an idiot, my joy at her joy bubbling out as a whoop, and then savoring the delight on her face as I jumped back down to snatch her up and spin her around.

But Margaret has been gone now for five years as of today, and I can’t bend my pride to do it, even though there isn’t another soul for a solid mile in any direction. So I solemnly climbed the ladder to the loft, feeling how the stiff soles of my boots flexed and slid on the painted wooden rungs.

When I got upstairs, I found the bales in a righteous mess, so I took my time stacking them properly, careful not to get dirty. I was wearing freshly pressed jeans and a flannel shirt that Mags had given me as a birthday present a few decades ago. It was faded and a bit thinner at the elbows than it used to be, but it was still my favorite.

Satisfied that my last chore was done properly and that the farm was in order, I got back into my old truck and headed towards the house. Together we bounced and rattled down the narrow dirt road, tired, but wearing our miles proudly.

I parked in the garage by the house, next to an empty space where Maggie’s car used to be, back before she couldn’t see well enough to drive anymore. I remember how much it had hurt her to be diminished like that, to have proof that she was becoming less every day, but as with everything else, she took it with a smile and a wink. She dickered with everyone who came to call about the car, as if she might suddenly decide she was going to keep it after all. It broke my heart when she finally sold it.

The engine of my truck rattled down to nothing as it always did, reluctant to sleep, and the door gave a deep creak and a hollow bang as I shut it. I ran my hand over the fender as I walked away. The paint was old and rough, with just the tiniest glimmer remaining of the sheen that I used to be able to see my reflection in. All these years and it never once let me down. I smiled as my hand trailed away off of the hood and brushed the glass of the headlight.

People often give affection to things that aren’t alive. Seems to be our vehicles mostly, but other things, too. My truck isn’t even one thing, it’s thousands of things, all working together. When I replace the spark plugs, the wiring harness, the oil, it’s still the same truck to me. New hood, new headlights, same truck. So at what point does it lose its essential character, the part that I feel affection for? How many parts can I separate or remove, before it’s just parts and the truck is gone?

I thought about that on the way to the house, but I wasn’t really thinking about my truck, as much as I love that old heap. I was thinking about my life, and when it stopped being my life and turned into just a collection of things and memories. When I stopped feeling fondness and affection for it. I lost parts of it over the years, and without knowing it, enough parts came away that I could no longer recognize the shape of it or feel a connection to it. I’m not complaining, mind you. I have no patience for whiners, but there comes a point when you realize that the race is over, win or lose.

Inside the house, I hung my keys on a small brass hook screwed into a wooden heart painted red with white piping. There’s another hook right next to it, just as scratched and dull as mine, but it’s empty.

On my way through the kitchen, I dropped my hat over the same chair back that I’ve used nearly every day for the last forty years. In the living room, the TV tray that I had set out next to my recliner was still there. My old Browning M1911 was on it, waiting for me. I sat down in the recliner with a familiar creaking of wood and springs and looked around at the room, at the walls.