How do you ever get big?

Drowsy, late afternoon sun. The seed heads of the long grass baked, so they rattled, castanet like, catching a slow breeze which came in bursts from the gravel road and skittered away across the broad waterhole.

Grandad was eight feet tall, at least. 

He jogged down the hill and went straight in, the ink black water a steeple behind his dive. 

I could see him diving for the try-line with huge crowds of men in hats jumping to their feet from wooden benches, roaring approval, icon of the Waikato. I always saw him in sepia.

The swoosh of her shooting stick parting the grass announced Grandma. 

She sat just behind us, making the most of the slow-moving shade.  “You should swim out to meet him”. 

She was looking over my head so the words seemed to push me gently out towards grandad. He had turned to face us, just his head above the water, silent.

Standing at last I ran to the water, threw my arms out and disappeared in a whimper of a splash. Instantly frozen, I sank.

The hands were huge, rock-hard, gentle and warm all at once. I was up on his shoulders before I ever thought to take a breath.

--

Grandad’s ancient tractor roared with the effort of the last long rise to the home paddock. 

The growling rose through my tiny gumboots and if it hadn’t been for his huge legs locking me in place would surely have shaken me to tiny pieces.

The sun was already just a ribbon running along the ranges as cloud bore down, laden with heavy rain coming soon.

How could you ever be big enough for such a world?

--

I was on the couch in the sun-porch when the rain came. 

I had my favourite book, with the tractor with the happy face and lots of quiet friends. I closed it, put it behind the cushion, wondering suddenly what grandad would ever make of such a thing.

The warmth and sweetness crept down the hallway from the kitchen and filled the room, and I was instantly hungry, praying that Grandma would call my name.

Grandad came through the doorway. 

He was wearing an apron, and he bent down, proffering the small tray he held in one hand. I Ioved lemon cake more than anything in the world.

He pointed to the biggest piece, I looked at him and he nodded. 

His smile said I had earned it, and I gobbled it down so fast I barely needed the side plate he balanced on my knees.

When we had washed up, he and I, he spread his paper across the huge kitchen table, and placed some paper to one side. 

“Come and do me a painting, I love your paintings. You’re clever with all those colours, pigments and shades, how do you do that? I can’t paint for peanuts.”

I began, and the tractor took slow shape. The tractor I couldn’t wait for in the early morning.