Raised in the Dirt: Story 1 – The Backhoe on the Trailer That Started It All

I remember one weekend when I was about nine or ten years old. I was with my granddaddy like most weekends. We pulled up at the shop and walked out to see a machine sitting there on the trailer.

From as far back as I can remember, I was always fascinated by equipment. If there was a machine at the farm, I wanted to be on it — even if it was just to ride along. I just always loved machines.

This time, it was a backhoe, loaded up on a 25-ton tag trailer behind the dump truck. My granddaddy had brought it home from another job they were working on in Raleigh. They were done with it there and planned to take it to another job on Monday. But to me, seeing that backhoe sitting there was like Christmas morning. I wanted nothing more than to get it off the trailer and put it to work.

My granddaddy knew how bad I wanted to try it. He looked at me and said, “Son, if you can flip those ramps over and unchain it, you can go out there and dig some holes.”

That stuck with me, because he didn’t say “we” were going to do it — he meant me. This was my chance. He was going to let me go out there on my own and run that machine. I guess because it was at the farm, he knew if I messed anything up, he could always fill it back in. But that didn’t matter — what mattered was this was probably the first time he ever let me truly operate a machine all by myself.

Those ramps were heavy — solid steel with oak boards — and I was just a kid. But I was determined.

Flip those ramps down.
FYI — older me telling you now — they’re a whole lot easier to flip down than they are to flip back up. Haha.

I know most of y’all probably don’t believe me at that age, but when I say my granddaddy had me on a machine from the time I could walk — he did. He was always getting in trouble with my mom and dad for putting me around dangerous things. And Lord forbid when he went home if my grandma found out — then he was in for it. Truth be told, he stayed in the doghouse more often than not. But he’d always just grin and say, “He’s gotta learn somehow.”

I can picture him right now, smirking when he said it — that little grin that meant, “Go on, John. Don’t worry about what they’re saying. I told you you could do it.”

That’s probably why people always said I was my granddaddy’s little buddy — because he’d let me get away with anything. I’ve heard that my whole life: “That’s why you loved your granddaddy so much — because he’d let you do whatever you wanted.”

Thinking back now, I laugh about it, but I understand. He probably did let me do a lot of things he knew he shouldn’t have — but that’s what made those days so special, and that’s what shaped me.

I wouldn’t change it for the world. If I could relive it all over again, I’d go back tomorrow. Those were some of the best, most memorable days of my life. And they definitely shaped me into the person that I am today.

I wrestled the chains, flipped the ramps down, and climbed up into the backhoe myself. I thought he was going to help me unload it, but instead he told me, “If you want to dig the holes, then you’ve got to unload it yourself.” He didn’t want to dig any holes — he was letting me.

Looking back, it amazes me. He was putting me on a machine he depended on for work the very next week and trusting me to drive it off a trailer. He had to know in his head something could go wrong — but he trusted me. Maybe he wanted me to see something in myself that I didn’t yet see — the part where he already knew I could do it.

Maybe he was teaching me even then: you have to believe in yourself the way he believed in me — and trust that you can do what you don’t think you can do.

He then told me to follow him, and we drove over to a field at the farm. He pointed to a spot and said, “Go ahead, dig your hole right there.”

I spent that whole afternoon digging holes, learning how the controls moved, how the bucket cut into the dirt, and how every little motion made a difference. My granddaddy sat nearby in his truck, just watching. He didn’t hover, he didn’t correct every move — he let me figure it out.

Later, when the day was winding down, he reminded me: “Don’t forget, that machine has to go back to work on Monday.” So I climbed back up, loaded it onto the trailer, and chained it down myself. He came back to check it, tightened everything up, and made sure it was good — but he let me handle the responsibility.

Looking back now, I realize that wasn’t just a fun afternoon of digging holes. That was my granddaddy teaching me independence, responsibility, and confidence. Most kids dreamed about running machines in the sandbox — I got to live that dream for real. And that day was one of the first times I felt like I was really stepping into the life that would one day become my calling.

This story is part of my Raised in the Dirt series — real stories from the roots of JG Grading & Landscaping.

👉 [Read the intro story here]