Every Spring, around mid-April my father would start a line of smoldering fire along the edge of the garden. With big fans of brush he kept control of the burn, beating back flames when they flared up, keeping the fire in line to wipe the slate clean of last year's debris and begin to break the will of tender new weeds,so determined to take over the soil. The ground was left blackened. Like a battlefield it stared back at us, daring us to even imagine that life could thrive there again.
.
The tiller sat in our barn all winter long, its clay covered tines rusting solid, making more work for my father after the last frost finally came and melted away again. Every spring if you were playing in our yard, you would have heard our father muttering under his breath as he oiled the tines, fueled up the engine and worked feverishly to get it to run.
Time to break ground seemed always to arrive earlier than he expected and the dogged tiller would sputter and cough like an old man being stirred from a long nap before its will gave way to his tenacity and finally started up with a loud, low, intimidating rumble.
The ground was no more eager to cooperate. The wildness of Springtime yearned take over the ground. Kudzu and Morning Glory stretched across the rigid red Earth, Weeds and crabgrass took hold as quickly as they could. Nothing innate is easy to disrupt. The newly thawed soil fought back hard against my father's will to soften it. His only weapon, the tiller; a plow of sorts now powered
by gasoline and brawn, though in years past the same ground gave way to the hooves of a mule and the bare feet of a farmer's boy, my father before he knew me.Vines wrapped around the tiller's tines, choking the engine, causing it to sputter and my dad to curse. Rocks refused to budge to its churning weight. Wet red-clay clung to the tiller's spikes and caked up on my father's big bare feet. The ground's resolve to remain in it's natural state though, never matched my father's zeal to conquer it.
Planting time was a family affair. Usually one or all of us girls would high step through the mud behind our father, knees to our chests as we pulled our feet out of the warm, soft dirt. We took direction from him, never doubting that he knew which job was best for each of us. We planted one row after another until dusk turned to early nightfall and the soil cooled beneath our feet. Whatever seed was left to sow would have to wait for the sunshine of another day.
First came the tomatoes.My father dug the deep holes and I followed behind him with jugs of water, so heavy I could barely wield them, and filled the holes before he dropped in the plants, then my sisters came behind and covered the roots, patting the soil firmly around the delicate plants with their bare hands. One after another, row after row, the process was the same. Then beans, corn, watermelon, cantaloupe, cucumbers, peas...Until finally the whole swath of land was neatly ordered with columns of expectation. After the work came the prayers and then the wait.
In a few weeks the once desolate, weed infested, stubborn piece of ground would transform into a virtual Eden of burgeoning plants. They would give us sustenance not only for the Summer and Fall, but throughout the winter as well. The work of growing never quite done, my father labored tirelessly, sweat dripping into his eyes and off the end of his nose as he pulled weeds and stood the corn back up after a night of hard wind and rain. He taught us all the value of a hard Summer's work and a lifetime of perseverance. Through him we learned that every season of growth requires change and that change always comes at a price.
Our garden was more than just a hobby for my dad. It's necessity maintained our humble lives, taught us deeper truths than we ever learned in Sunday School and in its most elemental function, fed our bellies so we could forge ahead. The ground gave way and life renewed sprung from it every Spring: but only because my father's will was stronger than the will of the tiller, of the weeds and of the ground itself. He knew the potential that lay buried beneath the rubble of last year and the overgrowth of careless Spring. With deliberation he wiped out the uselessness that took over our garden between the growing seasons and replaced the scraggly worn out fragments of yesterday with brand new Purpose.
Monday, April 24, 2017
Thursday, April 13, 2017
A Real Man
My father was a real man. He had a collection of shotguns and rifles that hung high on the wall of our living room, flanked on either side by the heads of stuffed 8 point bucks that he killed. We lived off venison and vegetables he grew in the two huge gardens that framed our yard every summer. He always owned a boat and a pickup truck and his idea of a fun summer vacation was two weeks on the lake, fishing, swimming and hanging out around a campfire at night. He wore flannel shirts, coveralls and camo. For most of my childhood he had a flat-top hair cut or a crewcut. He worked hard, brought home the paychecks that kept a roof over our heads and clothes on our backs. He was all the things that some people believe define what a man is supposed to be, but he was also much more.
My father got dressed up in a dress shirt and tie every Sunday morning and drove a church van with all his kids, his wife and every person who ever asked for a ride to services piled inside. He physically lifted one man from his wheelchair into the front seat every week. He played a guitar and sang gospel songs, tearing up sometimes at the joy that swelled up inside him as his heart filled with gratitude. Maybe he never learned that Real Men only look out for their own.
My father cried often. He rarely made it through a Thanksgiving prayer without choking up with tears. Even on Easter, with his family gathered around, his eyes would well with tears as he thanked the Good Lord for the food on our table. He cried at funerals and he cried for the sorrows of those he loved. He cried one day, when my mother hurt his feelings, and he cried at all our weddings too. I suppose no one ever told him that Real Men don't cry.
On many a Saturday my dad would load us girls into the pickup truck with him and take us out to the lake all day on a fishing trip. It didn't matter to him that we whined about having to pee or wanted to spend more time playing with the doodads in the tackle box than actually fishing. He liked having us there with him and he never called himself our babysitter. He took us with him when he recycled cardboard to earn extra money for the family and on the way home, we always got chocolate ice cream. He washed our faces with his spit, and always noticed when our clothes were getting too small. I guess no one ever told him that taking care of the kids was woman's work.
My dad loved our mother. He made that very clear. He respected her and honored her ideas and opinions, encouraged her to pursue her passions and never stood in her way when she wanted to travel or take on some adventure on her own. He trusted her implicitly and never considered himself her boss. He taught his daughters that they were capable, strong and competent. He knew that each of us would have what it took to make it in the world with or without a man. It seems no one ever taught him that men are superior or that women can't survive without one.
My father was not a violent man. His anger was sometimes bigger than him, but he found a way to bridle that and learned that lashing out at others with words or with his fists was never the way to resolve conflict. In his old age he lamented times in his youth when he came to fisticuffs with a school friend or coworker. He taught his family that love wins, even over anger, and that we could protect ourselves in a myriad of ways without ever raising a hand to another human being. He made us feel safe, but he also knew our mom was as much our protector as he ever was. He worked third shift for much of our childhoods, leaving us in the competent hands of our mom, who knew how to dial the police or wield a shotgun--whichever the situation called for. He never even considered the idea that a woman couldn't protect her family.
My dad never went shirtless. Never. Yeah, he had a hairy chest and a coarse red beard, but he never let it grow. He kept his hair short and his face clean shaven. The one time he tried out wearing a beard our mother told him he looked mean with it, so he shaved it off again and never looked back. He was confident that no one would mistake him for a woman because he didn't have facial hair. He carried a pocket knife and a tiny pencil in his pants pocket at all times, but he never owned a handgun. I doubt if he ever even fired one. Somehow he figured out that he didn't need a gun on his hip to be a Real Man.
My dad never referred to my mother as "his woman". He called her "Honey" most of the time, referred to her as the mother of his children, his wife, which in his mind meant his equal. He never treated her as his property, never treated his daughters as property either. He gave us his love unsparingly, always had his arms open for a hug, his lap rarely empty. He patted babies' butts and let them burp on his big shoulders, held them with pride and let them fill him up with joy. We never had to guess what he was feeling because he knew how to show his emotions. I wonder who neglected to teach him that men don't act emotional?
Indeed, my eyes were fixed upon him. He was and is the perfect example of what a man should be. He was ever-aware of his imperfection but always trying with every day, to be a better man than he was the day before. In his last hours his only regret was that we couldn't all go back to the beginning and live life all over again. What an amazing life he lived!
He set the bar high for me; I may never meet a man whom I can admire as much as I admired my father. Because he was a Real Man, and he was nothing like the men who pound their own chests and declare to the world their masculinity.
You can't be a Real Man unless you first learn to be Real. And Real was the only thing my father knew.
My father got dressed up in a dress shirt and tie every Sunday morning and drove a church van with all his kids, his wife and every person who ever asked for a ride to services piled inside. He physically lifted one man from his wheelchair into the front seat every week. He played a guitar and sang gospel songs, tearing up sometimes at the joy that swelled up inside him as his heart filled with gratitude. Maybe he never learned that Real Men only look out for their own.
My father cried often. He rarely made it through a Thanksgiving prayer without choking up with tears. Even on Easter, with his family gathered around, his eyes would well with tears as he thanked the Good Lord for the food on our table. He cried at funerals and he cried for the sorrows of those he loved. He cried one day, when my mother hurt his feelings, and he cried at all our weddings too. I suppose no one ever told him that Real Men don't cry.
On many a Saturday my dad would load us girls into the pickup truck with him and take us out to the lake all day on a fishing trip. It didn't matter to him that we whined about having to pee or wanted to spend more time playing with the doodads in the tackle box than actually fishing. He liked having us there with him and he never called himself our babysitter. He took us with him when he recycled cardboard to earn extra money for the family and on the way home, we always got chocolate ice cream. He washed our faces with his spit, and always noticed when our clothes were getting too small. I guess no one ever told him that taking care of the kids was woman's work.
My dad loved our mother. He made that very clear. He respected her and honored her ideas and opinions, encouraged her to pursue her passions and never stood in her way when she wanted to travel or take on some adventure on her own. He trusted her implicitly and never considered himself her boss. He taught his daughters that they were capable, strong and competent. He knew that each of us would have what it took to make it in the world with or without a man. It seems no one ever taught him that men are superior or that women can't survive without one.
My father was not a violent man. His anger was sometimes bigger than him, but he found a way to bridle that and learned that lashing out at others with words or with his fists was never the way to resolve conflict. In his old age he lamented times in his youth when he came to fisticuffs with a school friend or coworker. He taught his family that love wins, even over anger, and that we could protect ourselves in a myriad of ways without ever raising a hand to another human being. He made us feel safe, but he also knew our mom was as much our protector as he ever was. He worked third shift for much of our childhoods, leaving us in the competent hands of our mom, who knew how to dial the police or wield a shotgun--whichever the situation called for. He never even considered the idea that a woman couldn't protect her family.
My dad never went shirtless. Never. Yeah, he had a hairy chest and a coarse red beard, but he never let it grow. He kept his hair short and his face clean shaven. The one time he tried out wearing a beard our mother told him he looked mean with it, so he shaved it off again and never looked back. He was confident that no one would mistake him for a woman because he didn't have facial hair. He carried a pocket knife and a tiny pencil in his pants pocket at all times, but he never owned a handgun. I doubt if he ever even fired one. Somehow he figured out that he didn't need a gun on his hip to be a Real Man.
My dad never referred to my mother as "his woman". He called her "Honey" most of the time, referred to her as the mother of his children, his wife, which in his mind meant his equal. He never treated her as his property, never treated his daughters as property either. He gave us his love unsparingly, always had his arms open for a hug, his lap rarely empty. He patted babies' butts and let them burp on his big shoulders, held them with pride and let them fill him up with joy. We never had to guess what he was feeling because he knew how to show his emotions. I wonder who neglected to teach him that men don't act emotional?
Indeed, my eyes were fixed upon him. He was and is the perfect example of what a man should be. He was ever-aware of his imperfection but always trying with every day, to be a better man than he was the day before. In his last hours his only regret was that we couldn't all go back to the beginning and live life all over again. What an amazing life he lived!
He set the bar high for me; I may never meet a man whom I can admire as much as I admired my father. Because he was a Real Man, and he was nothing like the men who pound their own chests and declare to the world their masculinity.
You can't be a Real Man unless you first learn to be Real. And Real was the only thing my father knew.
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