I have distinct memories of that day. I was meeting with some close friends that afternoon. We heard the sound of a siren coming up the highway and noticed that it seemed to be stopping right out front. This is quiet farm country so we went outside and watched as the ambulance turned west on Adams Road. I think I breathed a prayer for those involved as I often do when I hear sirens. I never thought about my brother owning property over there at the end of the road – or that it might be my family who was dealing with a crisis.
After we had been back inside for a few minutes, there was a knock on the door and my sister-in-law appeared telling me that my dad had died. We got in her truck and went to the field. My brother took me to the tractor where Daddy was slumped over – as if he had just fallen asleep. I will always be grateful for that opportunity to see him looking so peaceful in that tractor cab. It was somehow comforting for me in the days to come. Plus I guess it was my chance to say good-bye.
I also have a whole wagon-load of memories from the next few days – listening to so many testimonials about the life of this man. As I heard the sentiments of those who had been touched by his life, this thought emerged: “Some people love things and use people. This man was different in that he used things and loved people.” He didn’t really care that much about things; making it crazy difficult it was to find something to buy him for Christmas. Last year's new wallet was still in the box because the old one wasn't worn out yet. But he did care about people and they knew that he loved him.
But more than that day, and more than those stories, I’ve been remembering him in ordinary life. Day after day as I mow the grass around this place – up and down the rows of Christmas trees – I think about my dad. He and his dad perhaps had toiled to clear the trees from this land so that they could farm it and. I ponder the irony – that we had the nerve to ask him to help us plant trees on these cleared tillable acres. He may have thought that was a move in the wrong direction, but he didn’t scold us. Instead he cheerfully drove that little old Ford tractor towing the little one-row planter with my husband perched on the planter seat, inserting Scotch pine seedlings into the ground – one at a time – row after row.
Those seedlings did indeed mature into beautiful Christmas trees and some years later my dad again came to help on the “west 40” – this time driving an old John Deere tractor and serving the customers who came to buy Christmas trees. He relished his role as host and guide – giving wagon rides, making customers feel welcome and helping them build family memories. How fun to see his old “train conductor” hat put to such good use.
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And now he's gone - some seventeen years. The Christmas trees have grown up to make this place a glorious green retreat just waiting for the right buyer to come along and snatch it up. All of us have grown up since then, too - or at least we have grown... in lots of ways.
Things change - through the passing years so that we hardly notice - and sometimes in a day when everything is suddenly different. We notice those days and we remember.
June 4, 1996, was one of those days.
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Do you have memories of my dad, too? Please leave a comment to share one of yours.
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Compiled from bits and pieces written on this date through the years...
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