Page 1 of Ginjuh

Chapter 1

The freckles on my face are always prominent but my body was absolutely littered with the little red and brown flecks at the end of summer. Working on my grandpa’s farm over the hottest and sunniest days of the year didn’t give me a tan so much as a beet-red burn that eventually flaked away and left the paint-fleck-like reminders that I was, in fact, a real red-head. The good thing was that I usually burned at the beginning of summer and then for the following months, freckles spawned like bunnies. It was the one kindness God had done when providing my genetic material, I suppose. One sunburn a year wasn’t too difficult or painful to deal with. Grandpa always chuckled and told me that if I’d just come to work on the farm with a long-sleeve shirt and a wide-brimmed hat I probably wouldn’t burn as much. However, he wasn’t the type to hover and reiterate anything. He knew that I’d heard him, had let him say his piece, yet it was my body and my decision and that was the end of it.

Grandpa’s farm was the one place where I could take off my shirt and pull off my hat and not worry about hollers and jeers about my flaming red hair, my pale skin, or my overabundance of freckles. I could strip down to my shorts and kicks and shovel, rake, chop at the ground, lift bags, harvest…sweat and do back-breaking work until I was ready to fall into bed at night. The world fell away and I was just some teenager on his grandpa’s farm, helping the old guy out with chores that had become too difficult for him in his later years of life. Each day, I’d get up at the butt-crack of dawn and jog the two miles from my house on the edge of town out to grandpa’s farm. He’d always be on the porch, waiting with his cup of coffee so black and thick that a spoon could stand up in it.

When I jogged up to his front porch every morning, the sky just starting to turn from bluish-black to a deep purple, grandpa would hold his mug up in greeting as he sat in the porch swing. He’d remind me that he was more than willing to drive over and pick me up each morning. I’d always remind him that I enjoyed the jog over to his property. It gave me time to clear my head, think my thoughts, just be alone with nothing but my own inner voice and feelings. Also, the work on the farm and the jog made my body something I wasn’t totally embarrassed by. Of course, I didn’t use those words exactly, but I think I got my meaning across. At least, grandpa always acted as though I did.

Well, if you ever change your mind, Zach, you just let me know. All right?

He said it every morning and every morning I’d just nod and acknowledge that I understood. Every following morning, I’d jog up to his place, he’d have his cup of coffee raised in greeting as he sat in his swing, and I’d hear his offer again. I’d respond in the same way and the day would continue. It wasn’t necessarily a game we played but it was more of a way for him to show that he cared about me and it was my way of letting him know that I was just fine doing things my way. I guess it was kind of showing respect for each other. I’d take my jog, grandpa would offer a kindness, I’d decline, and as men, we’d respect each other’s opinions and decisions. I knew that this was an “old school” way that men interacted, the way my grandpa was raised by his father, so I respected it and participated.

Some mornings, after I’d tell my grandpa—Mr. Ernest Pelton, thank you very much—that I enjoyed my jog each morning, I’d tell him that I looked forward to his offer of a ride each morning. Hearing him chuckle as I jogged up to the steps leading up to his porch and then imply that I was crazy to prefer jogging over a ride was comforting. It was a routine that reminded me that things were staying their course. Grandpa’s chuckle, one of the best chuckles in the world, had been a little rheumy for some time. So, knowing that he still felt up to coming to get me if I so chose made me a little less concerned.

The last day of summer, before my senior year was to begin, I jogged up to grandpa’s porch and the sky was turning pink. I had been late getting out of bed because the day before I had spent twelve hours pouring and spreading fresh gravel out over grandpa’s driveway. A few potholes had to be filled in and packed down before that could even happen and grandpa’s driveway wasn’t exactly short. The job, while exhausting, had been exhilarating—all of the lifting and shoveling and raking and sweating. It had exercised every muscle in my body and caused me to fall asleep before my head had even hit the pillow when I went to bed at home afterward. However, twelve hours later, I was up and showering and jogging out to Grandpa’s again. Like always, he was waiting for me as I jogged up.

“Good mornin’, Zach,” Grandpa greeted me with his raised coffee mug like he always did. “The Sandman sprinkle a little too much on ya’ last night, son?”

His watery chuckle made me smile as I came to a stop at the base of the porch stairs.

“Good mornin’, grandpa.” I said.

Actually, it came out more like: “Good mohnin’, grampa.”

I cleared my throat. Tried again.

“Good morning, grandpa.”

Nailed it.

“Yeah.” I reached up to run my fingers through the red waves on my head. “I guess I was beat.”

He waved me off. “You want a cup?”

Again, he held that coffee mug up. I shook my head. I couldn’t stand coffee, which he knew, but he was never not going to offer that kindness each morning when I arrived.

“Sure?” He eyed me. “Somethin’s gotta put some hair on your chest.”

He gave his signature chuckle again.

“Maybe this year will be the year all the teenage hormones will kick in?” I suggested with a sly smile. “Or maybe I’ll never fully become a man. Who knows?”

He rolled his eyes and waved me off again like this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“You shovel gravel for twelve hours straight, you ain’t gotta have hair to prove you’re grown, Zach.” He snorted, cleared his throat.

I shrugged.

“Now, I don’t know nothing about the gays,” he said, “but I figure that having hair on your chest might help you land a man.”

I blushed.

“Well,” he expounded, which never helped, “I just imagine that a man who wants a man wants the man to look like a man. But, then again, I’m a crusty old fart and don’t understand much.”

“You try.” I knew my cheeks looked like they had rouge on them—the curse of the redheads. “More than I can say about a lot of people. But don’t try when other people are around.”

He guffawed and started choking. The coffee mug nearly slipped out of his hand as he slapped at his knee. Quickly, I dashed up the steps to catch the mug but grandpa was quick, regardless of his condition, and slapped me away with a growl as he finally cleared his throat and straightened up.

“Keep your damned hands off my coffee.” He growled at me, though his eyes twinkled. “You may be nearly grown but I’ll drag your ass to Hell.”