A Strong, Silent Farmer
I addressed the broad subject of my dad in my published book of stories of my life entitled Fragments, so I’ll give a “condensed version” here. In that narrative I described his background and early life, so addressing what he was like will be a slightly different perspective.
He was a strong silent type of person who was cautious in speech, assertive in action but creative in imagination. He would give hired men and salesmen and visitors little in the way of extra or free advice or speeches. He gave those who looked to him for direction a minimum amount of it but would speak openly to a stranger or person in need. His life was farming, and his love was the farm.
An early recollection of him was the sharing of my mom’s anticipation of his return from a day working on a neighboring farm. I would be laying in bed in the summertime listening for the sound of his tractor. When I heard that distinct crackling sound of the exhaust from his Allis-Chalmers tractor as he came over the hill north of our home about a quarter-mile away - I could then go to sleep. I used this as an example of security once in a talk; hearing a sound that lets you go to sleep.
Strength and Ingenuity
The different role of being a farmer compared to teachers, shopkeepers, bankers, and the general population of non-farmers was that he was present to us all day long; he didn’t leave for work; he simply stepped out the back door and was immediately immersed in all the work of the farm. His hands were calloused and rough; he seldom wore mittens except in the very coldest of days Dad was very strong; he enjoyed demonstrations of strength, especially of his grip. A favorite contest was to have someone stand facing him; both would then grip hard on a single shared broom handle raised above their heads. The contest was for both men to then lower their hands without losing their grip on the broom handle. I never saw him lose at that.
His imagination resulted in some unique features around the farm; a chute for loading hogs and cattle into the transport trucks to haul them to market was one of his inventions. It was maneuverable rather than stationary, which the truck drivers appreciated; they didn’t have to back up their trucks so exactly. Plus, he could move it to any lot on the farm, rather than having to herd the animals to a lot with a fixed chute. He also constructed a pipeline from a spring to a feedlot a half-mile away by a syphoning method that I describe in more detail in my book of stories called Fragments. His engineering ideas always seemed to work. He loved math and working with numbers. I remember that he made the figure 8 backwards! I don’t know why I would remember that!
For some reason he had the strange fault of leaving tools wherever he last used them. He never “picked up” everything when he finished a job and as a result was always looking for the misplaced items. He was totally oblivious to clothing and style; his shirts were always hanging out and he wore a turtle-shell hat in the summertime because he said it kept his head cooler; no regard for the strange appearance he presented. He enjoyed a good card game, cigars, math and puzzles, reading, and telling ghost stories. A lot of his ghost stories were unique in style as well as substance. They were in the style of a conversation with his brothers; usually Uncle Loren, drawing out the details about the people and circumstances with solemn and hushed voices. Every story was delivered in a slow and deliberate tempo; the sound of footsteps on a stair, a dog howling in the night a light in the woods, sudden gusts of wind, bloodstains on a floor, or moaning sounds from a cellar were all told with a delivery that sent shivers down my spine.
Saturday Night in Pittsfield
Dad was respected by the farmers around Pittsfield. On Saturday nights he would always frequent a store on the town square after his shopping was done, where he could smoke a cigar and talk to the other farmers who congregated there. One acquaintance, Ray Meyers, who raised even more hogs than Dad, was his main conversant. The younger farmers and truckers, hired men and hangers-on, would often listen in on the conversations between Dad and Ray Meyers. Their attention reflected their respect for the opinions and observations of these two. Dad was always frustrated that he did not feel comfortable as a public speaker. He would often express his wish to be able to make a statement or ask a question when he returned from a public meeting
The Giant Box Kite
One last memory about what Dad was like. One April morning when I was seven or eight years old, as the spring wind had arrived. It must have awakened an urge in my Dad... to fly a kite! He built a marvelously large box kite “from scratch”. We were fascinated to see him work on something relatively delicate and fragile; he specialized in building heavy substantial structures meant to withstand the strength and determination of horses and cows. So we watched with excitement as he constructed the frame from some willow branches, long and thin and flexible. I don’t remember the material he stretched around the frame, but I think it was cloth from some feed sacks. I know we tore several feed sacks into strips to make a large tail (even with a kite, Dad made things on a large scale; it was nearly six feet standing on end). The string must have been something heavier than normal string but not as heavy as twine, that Dad had bought for just such a use, so perhaps this event was not as spontaneous as we had imagined.
The wind was pretty constant for April, with just a few fluffy clouds to frame the blue sky. The moment of truth was triumphant! The kite soared into the sky, lifted and pulled strongly by the wind. The frame bent but didn’t break, as Dad let out the string. He used a leather glove to hold the string; one of the rare times he ever wore a glove. We yelled with delight!
We must have stayed for an hour or so, watching the kite dipping down and then surging back into the sky. I think Mom was as surprised and pleased as the rest of us that Dad would take time from a busy day to pause and invest a morning in flying a kite. All other tasks were set aside that morning as we were totally immersed in this spontaneous family experience of making a memory.
That Was Dad
Dad never expressed much emotion or showed his love for us kids in a very demonstrative way. I think each of us secretly felt the same sense of being deprived of the gift of more of his time. Why couldn’t he ever just let himself become completely attuned just to me; couldn’t he ever really be totally absorbed just in me? It didn’t seem so. I believe he did see each of us as unique individuals that were special and different, but he just didn’t demonstrate or verbalize it well. That was Dad.