BUSS
Despite
the raw-bone strength of the man, he was exceedingly shy.
Comments
that lacked the trappings of political correctness often brought a smile to his
face--
A
smile that was quickly offered only to the ground at his feet.
The
man had a short fuse, but the explosion, if there was one, was usually private
and hidden.
Those
that angered him were almost always selfish people or those too lazy to do for
themselves.
Moochers
and grabbers—the piggy people always wanted more, or always wanted his.
Not
to say the man was withdrawn or ill tempered—he was just comfortable with
quiet and a lack of idiots.
He
was quick to laugh, but would not carry on—his humor as genuine as the
man, himself.
And
he was also the kindest of men who shared without reserve, but would not suffer
fools nor those mean spirited.
The
man never took a wife, though it was said he once gave his heart.
His
love wasn’t rejected so much as it probably went unnoticed.
Perhaps
due to that quiet tragedy, was he able to fully share his heart with his animals
and his ground.
He
bided his time and worked on his vision while Shorty, his father, still sat on
the tractor throne.
He’d
shake his head but go along with Shorty’s schemes no matter he knew it
wouldn’t work out well.
But
he had a special patience that came from the knowledge that he could fix it
if it all went south.
Not
much changed when we put Shorty in the ground.
Outfits were still rigged from found objects,
Schemes
were still hatched in the early-morning dark, and machines were regularly raised
from the dead.
The
farm became a living monument of the man working with nature, farmer physics and
intuition.
He
had an unconditional love for all of his animals—except perhaps for the one
cow.
After
all, it was she that started the trouble—it was she who led the herd’s
exodus for two days and nights.
And
after they were herded home, and despite the man’s worry, the cow offered no
explanation.
The
man was a magician of sorts—working an arcane alchemy of sweat, toil and good
sense--
Turning
common things like dirt and water into the mystery of new life.
The
farm was for a few of us, a place of special magic—a touchstone—a sanctuary.
The
farm became a venue for dinners and gatherings of dignitaries and guests from
around the world.
Japanese
Sensei did fan dances in the bonfire light as their students sang songs of
cherry blossoms.
Africans
made their Muslim feast of Eid at Jackie’s kitchen table.
The
man filled our lives over the years—gave us memories that saved us in our dark
times.
Memories
of barn acrobatics, bales in the shimmering prairie sun and the heated dust of
the hay loft.
Times
of laughter, sweat and hay-rack rides—the old man limping out, smiling, glad
to see you as was his dog.
Memories….times
when schnapps treated cold fingers and whiskey rewarded hard work.
The
first thaw of winter and the smell of dirt in March—and days where the sun
hung in the sky forever.
Soft
farm sounds—the wind blowing through the trees—crickets singing and snow
crunching underfoot.
And
now even though the man has passed, he will live on in our lives at that special
remembering.
The
man, his land and animals changed us forever—but more important,
He gave us a treasure that no one can take from us….he gave us the magic of our memories.