Sowing the seed,
my hand is one with the earth.
Hoeing the crop,
my hands are one with the rain.
Having cared for the plants,
my mind is one with the earth.
Hungry and trusting,
my mind is one with the earth.
Eating the fruit,
my body is one with the earth.
Wendell Berry, Kentucky farmer,
poet and philosopher
I was first here about
1985, cruising timber on the Big Goettee tract. I stopped to
see the farmer, who owned the property between the highway and my
tract. I wanted him to show me the property line, which ran
through a hardwood bottom and had not been marked or surveyed in
many years.
He was a gritty old
codger, alone on the farm. He was a bit suspicious (I was in
my woods clothes, sweaty, dirty and hot), but he agreed readily
enough. Together, we located the old blazes that marked the
line. I thanked him, he went back to his chores, and I back to my
timber cruising.
I learned that he was
the last of a family of farmers. Like all family farms, his
was generational, going back for at least 3 generations. It
was a family effort with all members committed to make it work, men
women and children. His were people committed to the land, not
only for profit and provender, but as a way of life. It was the sort
of life that put up with seasons, the vagaries of temperature and
rainfall, the interference of the government and dawn to dark work
in season. It was a good life and a good place to raise
children to lasting values of work and home and fierce independence.
He made an impression on
me. Like his place he was grayed and worn, more like a stone
monument than an elderly man. His tromp down his property line
left me gasping to keep up, and I am used to being in the woods.
He had gotten off his tractor to walk across the road, walked the
half mile of line through the swamp and gotten back on his tractor
when he was finished. It was summer and hot, hot, hot.
Yesterday, for the first
time in 18 years, I returned to recruise timber. The Big
Goettee property owner was different, the trees I had cruised
in 1985 were gone and replaced by planted pine. The farmer was
gone also. His equipment (several tractors, a farm truck, a
combine, etc.) was rusting under a sagging, tin-roofed shed.
There was a 1980 Lincoln Towncar, covered with dust and old pollen under
the shed as well. In front of the shed was a small boat,
homemade, up on chocks. The roof of the house was sagging,
some of the windows were broken and several side boards had fallen
off. Oddly enough, the fields were fresh plowed and planted.
My guess is that a large farm operation had bought the property.
I think he passed on,
joining the ranks of small farmers in Heaven. He never would
have left the land otherwise. He will be missed, as will as
his kin and his kind. They are the people who honor commitments, who
keep there word to each other and the land they so obviously have
been a part of. They have been the backbone of America,
and I don't know what will replace them.
