The Saturday Journal: The Farmer
On occasion when we're riding down the road--just she and I--we'll listen to music. She'll share her music with me--and I'll share songs with her. Sometimes we agree to disagree. And other times we'll come together and the song will play on repeat--mile after mile.
She grabbed her phone and started scrolling, I have a song I want to play for you. And as I listened--I fought hard to stop the tears.
The song ended and I sat in silence for a few minutes.
Granna, did you like that song?
I love the song.
Where'd you hear that song?
It's on my friend's playlist. She shared it with me. Her friend--the daughter of a hard-working farmer.
Rounding the curve on one of the side roads this week, I saw out in the field an old truck and attached to the truck was a flat-bed trailer. Round bales of hay adorned the field circling the truck and the trailer. The old truck--the hood was up on the truck and the man--the farmer--he wore faded jeans and his back was bent--and his face--close to the motor--examining the problem.
I was only four when my Grandpa Rhodes died unexpectedly--a heart attack. He was 47, a loving husband to my Granny Rhodes, father to ten children--eight girls and two boys. He was a farmer--the headline to his obituary read, Rhodes; Farmer of Wilkes. And it went on to say, He operated a large poultry farm and for several years had been a member of the of the Wilkes Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Committee. He was a member of Bethel Baptist Church, where for a period of years he served the church as clerk.
Some forty years had passed and on a Sunday afternoon--three days after Christmas--all his children with the exception of one who was out of town gathered around a kitchen table--talking--answering questions. They had agreed to help me with an Oral History project I was doing for one of my college classes. We laughed that day and we cried many tears--we went through at least two or three boxes of Kleenex--
And two of the questions I asked--they were harder than the others--
What is your favorite memory of your Daddy--your Mama?
"I don't remember if there was five or six of us. He had bought a new Chevrolet pickup and every Sunday morning, well we would go to church and we would come home and they would take care of the chickens and then he would get us all in the pickup and one would stand up between him and Mama and one would sit on the edge and all the rest of us would sit on each other's lap and he would take us to Roaring River or North Wilkesboro or Wilkesboro and always bought us a cone of ice cream. I'll never forget that. We were just as happy as we could be."
"I just wanted to be with my Dad. Everywhere he went I wanted to be there. I didn't want to go anywhere without my Dad. He would have to dress me and throw me out the door." (going to school the first year).
"He took me with him when he bought the old green 51 Chevrolet. I remember getting in there (car) and standing up beside him and the salesman was with us. I wanted to play with the cigarette lighter and the salesman was with us. I wanted to play with the cigarette lighter and the salesman got on to me for playing with the cigarette lighter. Daddy never said anything to me. He didn't care for me playing with the lighter. I guess Daddy had already bought it."
"He had a rocking chair in the living room and he would sit there. And we would just get in his lap and he would clean my fingernails and talk to me. He had a distinct smell about him too. It wasn't a bad smell it was different. I can remember Mama getting his clothes out after he died and smelling his clothes."
Another child of his, "I can't say nothing" she said through tears.
And another crying, "I can't remember a whole lot about my Dad. I remember when he died."
My Uncle--the Farmer's oldest son--when his Daddy died--he kept a pair of his overalls. And one day, years later--my Uncle showed the overalls to his Granddaughter--she being a farmer, herself. She tried them on--the ones her Great-Grandpa had only worn a few times. And the overalls, they fit her--perfect.
And although I missed sitting in the rocking chair with my Grandpa--holding his hand while gathering eggs in the chicken houses--fishing with him at the pond--walking hand-in-hand in the hay fields, I'll remember him. He lives on--in shared stories--in our name--our family--every time I see a field overflowing with hay bales--a faded tractor--an old chicken house--worn barn walls--blue jean overalls or when I hear the words of a song that tells the story of a farmer who worked hard his entire life for all he had and was still poor--but rich in ways the world doesn't understand anymore--I'll remember him.
Thank you for your continued kindness in reading The Saturday Journal.
I am grateful for each of you--more than you will ever know.
And I pray, the stories shared in this space will encourage you--
bring a smile or remembrance, and bless you in some small way.
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What a beautiful collection of memories!