Yesterday was one of those days where I felt that I was hitting on all cylinders. The day spent with one of the reps who was new to his territory and we called on three accounts. Each was so different from the other that we were able to spend time building strategy for each one. We talked about territory management, forecasting, strategically approaching his business to swiftly maximize his business. I texted my bride and told her I LOVED this job, mostly because after a long layoff, I was able to do what I love to do.
So as I crawled into bed, far from home, but content with the day, it occurred to me that the farm that I had grown up on, which had been a presence in my life for the past 50 years had been sold that day. My dad and I talk every week, a couple of times a week and he had called me on Monday and said they were closing on the farm. I tried to put it out of my mind because there was nothing I could do about it except be grateful that it was something that my dad wouldn't have to worry about any longer.
But it made me sad. I recalled romping down at the creek, getting muddy by sliding down an embankment into the murky water. I recalled the few times a water snake would come swimming down the middle of the creek causing quite a commotion as all us kids cleared out of the water to the snake pass..he had the right-of-way since we were all terrified of snakes. There were the summer thunderstorms where we would get trapped in the barn and marvel that we had to yell at each other because the rain and hail were so loud on the old tin roof. There was the craziness of building our own sled and hooking it behind the tractor and dragging each other at speeds that could cause serious damage if we fell off (or were slung off!)
Of course there was always the mischief that three boys could conjure up.
Fixing the electric fence was always a challenge as one brother would stand at the break in the thin wire and another would stand at the switchbox to turn it off so the mending could take place, then turn it on when it was completed:
"IS IT OFF?" yelling was the I-phone of the day
"YES, IT IS OFF!"
"ARE YOU SURE?"
"YES! I'M LOOKING RIGHT AT IT!"
So you tenuously pick up the cold strand (furthest from the swithcbox) and then hesitantly pick up the potential "hot" strand. About one out of ten times the big joke was to leave the current on. When the repairer picked up both ends he became the closure in the circuit and the alternating current would blow a shock through you that would leave your joints buzzing, your teeth rattling, and an intense urge to urinate. Of course you couldn't hear the hooting and laughing for several seconds because it took you that long to realize again what had happened. Sometimes it was just easier to walk the several hundred yards back and forth to make sure the thing was off before grabbing the ends. Trust was not a big player for us boys at the farm.
And of course there were the meals. Mom was a firm believer in the big breakfast. This was long before the metro days of cholesterol, fat count, and all that. She just knew we needed lots of calories for the work of the day. So every morning she made piles of bacon and plates of scrambled eggs, biscuits and on Saturdays she added pancakes to the menu. We gobbled it down and knew we would be ravenous by lunch. Then there were the Saturday evenings of setting up the long folding tables and eating out under the big, old pecan trees. The heat of the day dissipating under the shade as we ate steak and fries and whatever else she put in the table. It was a golden time as we worked and joked and ate as a family of field hands.
But along with all the memories are the best and most fundamental lessons. The contentment of having tired muscles and sore back from a long day of farm work. To understand that hard work is its own reward. It was a moment of contentment to rock back on your heels and watch several hundred yards of sprinklers throwing 40' streams across the Bermuda pasture and realizing that you had laid that pipe straight and true. To take pride in a job well done. I remember staring back at the precision of the rows laid down while driving the old Farmall-H that was older than I, but at my direction turned back the rows and lifted the dust over me. The lessons that callouses and farmer-tan and grit in your hair and in your teeth are badges of honor..honor that not many from my day were allowed to hold. The lesson that shared work builds community, and lives.
And so the day brought joy and fulfillment and pride and regret and sorrow and a slight sense of displacement. For you see this was the place for the past 50 years that reminded me of where I came from, who I was in a fundamental way. The sight of the old farm house reminded me of grandparents and parents, siblings and friends who had all shared the omelet that was me. It now belongs to someone else, it is no longer mine except in the memories of my life and the strands that have woven me into who I am.
Godspeed to those out there who turned this bend in the journey. Most have by my age. But as in most things in life, it is better to let your backpack view the journey that has been, and your boots find the journey that will be.
Don
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