No Other Home Than This ( cont.)
In the floor board of the old truck was a can of rusty and slightly bent nails. Looking back, I realize that I never questioned then why a man would recycle nails. Pull them from discarded lumber and straighten them out for reuse. Saving nails was saving money. It's what many folks did back then. In today's disposable ( you could insert wasteful here) society a thing is bought and used without giving much thought to its longevity. From push mowers to bicycles, repairs are seldom done anymore. It’s cheap, don’t waste the time or energy, just go to the nearest big-box store and get a new one. It hasn’t always been that easy. Years ago, straightening the crooked nail meant extended use and saving money... two things that seem to have become old fashioned ideas.
The summer sun burned down on us as we made our dusty way along the road. Through the windshield I could see that the road was cradled in between a bluff of rock and trees on one side and a corn field green with knee high corn on the other. We soon came to an opening where a large barn stood. An old tire hung from an oak tree by a rusty old log chain. The tree limb from where the tire hung had grown over the chain long ago. Grass grew under the tree and showed no signs of the swing having been used for ages. We rounded the barn and the road dropped abruptly to a creek. A concrete bridge that also served as a dam allowed us to cross. The tires splashed through the running water flowing over the dam, throwing droplets on the hood and windshield. I pulled my arm back inside the window of the truck until we crossed. Upstream of the dam was a quiet pool of water that reflected beautifully the trees and sky above it. Under one tree along the creek bank was an old metal chair sitting on the flatrock, facing the water. The chair was red now, but spots of peeling paint here and there revealed the colors from its past. A single chair out here, so removed from the house? Bob must have noticed the quizzical look in my eyes. “ Isetta sits here often. For a couple of years she would sit in that chair for hours on end.” Then changing the subject he said, “there’s our best herd bull.”
The red and white bull was massive. His back was as straight as an aircraft carrier deck, his neck strong, and his muscles rippled as he walked. Bob told me they had saved up a lot of money and bought a good bull in Kansas City many years ago. This bull was an off-spring resulting from that purchase. I remarked that the cows across the fence were equally impressive. This was good stock.
“ Haste makes waste you know” Bob stated “ dad had good cows to start us, and we selected the best calves every year to build a herd. We've always kept good bulls before the cows, and Isetta keeps excellent records in her ledger.It takes time to build a good herd.” Bob gunned the old truck a little as we headed up a knob. Dust swirled in the warm summer air behind us.
A ballet of shadows and light danced on the hood of the old truck as we drove under and out of the shade of the trees along the road. The dirt road swept up and around the knob in its approach to the top. The view from the truck windows of the valley below was wonderful. The creek, pastures, and fields of varying hue spread out before us. The cattle grazed contentedly in the valley and half way up the knob. I was reminded of part of a biblical verse I have always loved,“ The cattle on a thousand hillsides are mine” the Lord said. Few things in this natural world are constant. Civilizations rise and fall, magnificent structures are erected, then decay away. But the view before me was as old as man himself. Gods creation, a masterpiece of animal and terrain, looking much as it has for thousands of years, throughout much of the earth.
“You own a beautiful place here, Bob” I said as we topped the hill. “Well” he smiled, "I've known no other home than this, but I don’t reckon I own it really. We don’t owe a red cent on it, and the deed says it’s mine, but really it’s only mine for a little while. There was my dad who owned it, then two fellows before him. I suppose the Indians laid claim to it and, before that, it was Gods alone. I’m old now, pushing 80, with a bum ticker, and it won’t be too long before it’s someone else’s. No... it’s just mine to care for while I’m here, and then I’ll pass it on.” Bob had stopped the truck and we were getting out. "To family?” I asked as I stepped on the grass hillside. He paused only slightly as he was stepping out of the truck and glanced at the picture on the dashboard. “No, I’m afraid not”.
We stood on the hill top taking in the view below. The shadow of a large cloud passed slowly over us, turning the valley dark then light again. After a few seconds Bob spoke. “We had a son, fine boy, hard worker and smart too. We lost him when he was young.” “That picture on the dashboard, you called him Charlie, is that of your son?” I asked.
“It is” Bob started walking along the bluff. “ He enlisted in1941. He was too young without having us sign for him. He wanted to go so bad. Isetta and I agreed to let him go even though, since he was an only son, he could have stayed home. I had a couple of hired hands to help with things here so….He made it back okay, after about four years. Happiest day of our lives was seeing him walking down our road with his grips in his hand and a smile as big as Texas on his face.” Bob was smiling as he experienced that moment all over again in his mind. We stopped on a large rock protruding from the hillside. Bob reached down, grabbed a stalk of grass and began chewing on it.
“He was home about three months when he was in a bad car wreck.” Bob went on “Drunk fellow driving a log truck, of all things. Charlie made it out of the war and got killed by a drunk.” “I’m sorry” was all I could think to say. He looked out over the land with his hands in his back pockets and nodded, then turned and said “ that drunk almost took Isetta from me too. She spent two years not caring if she lived or died. Just went down to the creek where we all swam together, and sat in that old chair. Winter and summer, staring into the water. Eventually, I guess the waters there just kinda washed away the pain. One morning after breakfast she went to the shed and came back with her gardening tools. Started working in her flowers just like she used to. I knew then that she was on the mend.” We had turned around and were getting in the truck when he said “Well, whoever winds up with this place will find that we improved it. Isetta and I feel strongly that we’re put on this earth to make a difference. God gives you something, he has a right to expect you to treat it good. To build on it, not to waste it. A man's done good when he can say he left a thing better than he found it."
We headed back to the barnyard by a different access road. We discussed types of cattle, hogs and sheep. We settled on a couple of items that I sold that he thought would be beneficial to his operation. A fellow on a tractor mowing hay waved as we passed by and Bob pointed out that the fellow was his hired man. As we neared the house Isetta was exiting a white shed that I took to be a hen house. A basket under one arm, she smiled and waved to us as we approached. The chickens were nearby scratching in the pasture and yard. “My wife likes you son, I can tell. You’re honest, and she knows it.” "I try to always be” I said as we stopped next to the shed with the old Ford tractor in it. “Never stop trying, son" Bob said, getting out of the truck. He paused before he shut the door, smiled and looked me in the eyes “there is nothing more important in a feed man than honesty”.
Words to remember and live by.
I saw Bob and Isetta several more times before I moved on in 1985. The hog market reached historic lows and some producers back then didn't make it. Because Bob and Isetta were quite diversified they suffered no real or lasting damage.They were always such a pleasure to meet with. I had coffee and some wonderful baked items that Isetta provided each time I was there. These folks were never my biggest customer, but they were one of my best customers.
They never failed in their belief that it was a solemn duty to protect and improve upon the land that God had given them. I loved talking to them, whether I sold a thing or not. Faithful stewards. That’s what they were. Honest, resilient, hard working, caring and kind. The sort of people that made you want to work more fervently, harder and smarter. They were of the stock that had built the west into the Western Civilization. I don’t know what happened to them after I moved. I hope they had a contented life to the end.
With sparing uses of chemicals, good crop rotation practices and even the dedication to leave trees in fence rows to prevent wind erosion, Bob and Isetta protected their land. One thing is sure, their farm was left better off because of their wonderful insight into land stewardship. And, without a doubt, so was I.
