Old dog, new tricks
Before we get into anything, let's just go ahead and name the elephant in the room, shall we? Just so the three or four of us are on the same page, no fronts or ignorance.
His name is mid-life crisis, and from the way things are going, he's likely to visit me more than once.
We good?
So a few years ago I wrote a tribute to the wonder that is hay. In a move that surprised me not in the least, my dad responded promptly with an invitation to help him with getting up hay anytime I'd like. As long as I can remember, poor thing has spent a month of Sundays at least twice a year on the hay. With no volunteers from the household. Sometimes adulting is hard, y'all.
Well, it's no secret around here that I've been in a funk for a long time. The health journey is making a huge difference. But it was on the way home from church on a Sunday, "November Rain" playing on the radio, that the image of myself riding a tractor popped into my head. Yes, I know how left-field that is, but it made me very, very happy. It was a glimmer of hope, the thought that things don't have to be the way they've always been.
So a few weeks ago, I asked Dad if I could come when it was time to work the hay, knowing I was clueless and very indoorsy and would definitely slow the process down. Kinda like when the boys want to help with, ah, everything. Anyway, after the shock and confusion wore off, Dad giggled at me and said I was more than welcome. We set a date, and I encountered more shock and giggles when asking Brandon to hang onto the boys while I was gone.
Nerves grew on the way there, fear over screwing up or turning Dad's day into a waste. I felt even worse to arrive and see two tractors already on the move, raking and baling. Would they be annoyed that I was there, slowing them down? Would they be mad if I messed up the established process, the intricate, elaborate dance through the fields? Dad greeted me with a huge smile, pointed me to a perfect little tractor and rake, and said everything would be fine.
He was so very patient with me, as I struggled with the clutch and stalled out. Several times. As I turned too hard and scraped the tires against the rake, and as I somehow managed to break the chain holding the rake to the tractor. As I just couldn't grasp the logic of the directions, and spread the hay out instead of gathering it into a single line. Several times. Enough that he finally just started walking in front of me, arms waving like one of those guys at the airport with the lights in each hand.
Long about the second field, nearly two hours and several explanations later, I finally understood what to do. Dad let me try on my own, and even left for a few minutes to run another errand, after making sure I would be OK. It was so very peaceful, to gaze at the beauty of the farm and to breathe in the cool air of coming fall. The hay was thin, but to watch it come together, to circle around and see the rows I had made, it was good.
Of course then the baler started chasing me, which was a little anxiety-inducing. But still.
So thankful to Dad for his patience. Not just in teaching me on that day, but for waiting almost forty years for me to come around. Now that I halfway know what I'm doing, maybe next time I'll actually be helpful.
Change can be a very fulfilling thing. Things don't have to be the way they've always been.
His name is mid-life crisis, and from the way things are going, he's likely to visit me more than once.
We good?
So a few years ago I wrote a tribute to the wonder that is hay. In a move that surprised me not in the least, my dad responded promptly with an invitation to help him with getting up hay anytime I'd like. As long as I can remember, poor thing has spent a month of Sundays at least twice a year on the hay. With no volunteers from the household. Sometimes adulting is hard, y'all.
Well, it's no secret around here that I've been in a funk for a long time. The health journey is making a huge difference. But it was on the way home from church on a Sunday, "November Rain" playing on the radio, that the image of myself riding a tractor popped into my head. Yes, I know how left-field that is, but it made me very, very happy. It was a glimmer of hope, the thought that things don't have to be the way they've always been.
So a few weeks ago, I asked Dad if I could come when it was time to work the hay, knowing I was clueless and very indoorsy and would definitely slow the process down. Kinda like when the boys want to help with, ah, everything. Anyway, after the shock and confusion wore off, Dad giggled at me and said I was more than welcome. We set a date, and I encountered more shock and giggles when asking Brandon to hang onto the boys while I was gone.
Nerves grew on the way there, fear over screwing up or turning Dad's day into a waste. I felt even worse to arrive and see two tractors already on the move, raking and baling. Would they be annoyed that I was there, slowing them down? Would they be mad if I messed up the established process, the intricate, elaborate dance through the fields? Dad greeted me with a huge smile, pointed me to a perfect little tractor and rake, and said everything would be fine.
He was so very patient with me, as I struggled with the clutch and stalled out. Several times. As I turned too hard and scraped the tires against the rake, and as I somehow managed to break the chain holding the rake to the tractor. As I just couldn't grasp the logic of the directions, and spread the hay out instead of gathering it into a single line. Several times. Enough that he finally just started walking in front of me, arms waving like one of those guys at the airport with the lights in each hand.
Long about the second field, nearly two hours and several explanations later, I finally understood what to do. Dad let me try on my own, and even left for a few minutes to run another errand, after making sure I would be OK. It was so very peaceful, to gaze at the beauty of the farm and to breathe in the cool air of coming fall. The hay was thin, but to watch it come together, to circle around and see the rows I had made, it was good.
Of course then the baler started chasing me, which was a little anxiety-inducing. But still.
So thankful to Dad for his patience. Not just in teaching me on that day, but for waiting almost forty years for me to come around. Now that I halfway know what I'm doing, maybe next time I'll actually be helpful.
Change can be a very fulfilling thing. Things don't have to be the way they've always been.
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