WHY I AM NOT A FARMER

       I walked past Mr. Broyles's hayfield today . . .  at least, it was his hayfield in 1956, the year that I threw him off his trailer.  

     The temperature here today was low-70's and I wanted a change of scenery for my walk.  So I drove the 20 miles to the church where my youngest brother is pastor and walked laps around the perimeter of the grounds.  Then deciding to 'branch out', I  headed down the loop road . . . and there it was: the scene of my once-in-a-lifetime experience of tractor driving that  likely made Mr. Broyles fear that he was about to meet his Maker.

    Earlier that day, he had cut his hay crop only to have the weather make a dramatic change and threaten a thunderstorm.  Now, while not a 'farm boy', I knew that mown hay that  became wet meant disaster for a farmer.  So, this distinguished gentleman who lived in our parents' neighborhood came in late afternoon to our home and asked if my brother, 3 1/2 years younger, and I  could help him 'get up' the hay bales before the storm.  Sure. As I remember, he even offered to pay us.

   I should have known better than have him assign me to driving the tractor.  Even though I had a driver's license, this was 'new' and I was not a quick study.  My brother, much more muscular than I, was to toss the bales up to Mr. Broyles who rode the moving trailer and stacked the bales.  And darkness was imminent.  The details are fuzzy but I remember lurching the tractor, then hearing a shout.
I had 'bounced' him off the trailer and he was sprawled upon the ground.  Somehow, I got the Farmall (as I remember ) turned off and scurried back.  He was okay, just shaken up   . . . literally and emotionally.  At that point, my memory goes blank and I can conjure up no further details . . . such as, did I resume driving, did he summarily 'fire' me, were we paid, etc.  Mr. Broyles, an anomaly at the time, being one of the few registered Republicans in the area, went on to serve as local Postmaster during Eisenhower's presidency.

     Do you know the definition of a Successful Farmer? (Get ready...it's bad !)  He's a man, out standing in his field.  By that measure and many others, I have never been mistaken for a farmer.
Even in the seventh grade when many local farmers had flu-cured tobacco as their cash crop, I had flunked 'tobacco leaf handing' and my career ended after two days when Mr. Broadwell apparently decided that I was better suited for an 'indoor job'.

     Not to be discouraged, as a high school freshman, I enrolled in 'Vocational Agriculture', as it was termed.  Even joined the FFA ...
Future Farmers of America and bought the requisite, personalized blue jacket to advertise the fact.  My project was raising rabbits.
A neighbor, grand-fatherly Mr. George Cattlett, built the pens for me.  (I failed to note that my carpentry skills lacked competence.)  After a very few months of this, I sold my entire inventory to Mac Goodwin who then sold them as 'Easter Bunnies' outside his local drug store.

     Until I was 16 our family lived 'in town', albeit a small one.  However, there was enough land on our lot for our parents to have an annual garden.  Every Spring, many of our after-school afternoons were spent planting, chopping, watering, and weeding; followed later by nights of bean and pea-shelling.  To my brother and me, this 'estate' bore the dimensions of a 'plantation'.  We thought it 'hard work'.  Out of this annual agricultural extravaganza arose a story that mom told many times.  I heard it so often that I believe can almost recite it verbatim.  My brother stopped her one day by asking, "Do you enjoy this?"  Mom's reply indicated that it was not done for entertainment but as a way to supplement our family's  food supply.  To which Den replied, "Well, blamed if I do! When I get grown, I'm not having a garden."  Many years later when visiting this brother who was by then a successful Surgeon  in New Hampshire (where the only two seasons are July 4 and Winter), I observed a small garden plot in his back yard.  To my knowledge, mom who saw the vegetation did not remind him of his earlier declaration.

     Sometime after Mr. Broyles's encounter with my tractor skills, dad borrowed a neighbor's mule to plow a garden space.  My dad, normally a easy going, soft-spoken man, renamed 'Old Bob' with many 'blue' incantations that day.  Thereafter, I think he used only his roto-tiller.

     The Maintenance Department of the college where I taught had a small tiller that I borrowed for two or three Spring plowings in my backyard.  Initially, neighbors looked askance at my agricultural efforts; when the bounty began to flow and we shared tomatoes, potatoes, beans, okra, cukes, corn, and melons, it became a good thing.  Not being a necessity, the garden became an enjoyable hobby.  Still, by then, I had long 'planted' any illusions of 
agricultural expertise.

     Wish I had thought to have taken some of those veggies to Mr. Broyles and ask if all were forgiven.

    Satchel

     

ICY, I SEE

      In our state, much is being heard about yet another Winter storm last night, stretching into today.  Locally, we escaped the monster weather that occurred just a few miles away.  All night long we heard a downpour of rain with some smattering of sleet.  Sometime around 5 a.m., the electricity went out.  I called the utility company and soon everything was back up and running . . . so far; although there have been a few 'blinkings'.  Thousands in adjacent counties have not been as fortunate.

    Television news has been filled with images and stories of snow, sleet and ice, fallen trees, fallen power lines, damaged houses, dangerous traffic, closed and delayed schools, and potential flooding.  Even a truck 'salting' the roads slid into a ditch.  Yet again, the Governor has declared a State of Emergency.  'Winter weariness' long ago became a cliche, no, a reality.  'Spring Break' (the annual holiday that students and teachers alike rely upon for respite) is 'in the crosshairs', as an area newspaper headlined today.  There are MANY days to be 'made up'.

    For those with no particular responsibilities nor timetables, the slowing of the tempo has provided occasion for napping, reading, pondering . . . and gratitude to those whose occupations allow no such leisure, among those: Utility workers restoring power, law enforcement, highway crews, emergency workers, health care providers.  The next time that you have occasion to speak with any of those persons, say a word of 'thanks'.  Such makes 'good listening'.

        Satchel