The Farmer…
My dad was a farmer, and I miss him. He wasn’t a homegrown farmer, but rather, a city kid who left school in 8th grade to enter the workforce at RBW Printers in Owen Sound. By the time I came along, he was in his early 20s, and already had a daughter. I was his 2nd child of what eventually would become a brood of seven.
I vaguely remember moving to an old farm in Derby Township as a young boy. Dad was taking night school classes in the city to learn to be a farmer. Soon, he abandoned his successful printing career and struck out on his own as a farmer. As a small boy, I had no idea how my Dad’s decision would impact my life.
I grew up around farmers, and as a young, aspiring rookie, my Dad depended on these characters for advice, for help, but mostly for friendship. I remember as an 8-year-old child, driving an old Case tractor with a hand-clutch, because I was too small to reach a regular clutch...baling hay for my neighbor Mervyn Johnson. It was terrifying, and exhilarating, and I would take that experience over Disney or any other theme park. Imagine, my Dad allowing me to bale Mr. Johnson’s hay! Me driving, while he worked the stuker. How many kids today even know what a stuker is?
I learned so much from those farmers. My life featured an amazing array of characters that seem today to be larger-than-life. I’ll always think of the hearty laugh of Alex Torrie, my father’s closest friend, of thoughtful and quiet Basil Haefling, of calm and gentle Mervyn Johnson, and who could ever forget the brilliant, but slightly volatile, George Bothwell? These guys were friends. Friends to my Dad, and by extension, friends with me. I would sit for hours and listen to them, “chew the fat”.
Often times my Dad would load up the car with kids, and over Mom’s protests, he’d say, “Let’s go drop in on Alex and Shirley” or “George and Azelda", shortly thereafter, with no prior scheduling, or lengthy preparations, a carload of Clarks would arrive, unannounced for an evening of delightful fellowship. Those were some of the best times of my young life. As the night wore on, the farmers would begin to think of morning chores and we would head home early, by today’s standards. There was no staying up until midnight when 5 a.m. milking was just around the corner. As a teenager I learned the hard way, what the farmers already knew. A good night’s sleep is a priceless treasure...and…”Nothing good ever happens after midnight.” This axiom from the farmers frequently came to mind in later life, when as a police officer I would be dealing with some horrific tragedy, usually fueled by alcohol, or drugs, and in my mind I would hear the farmers say, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.” Words to live by.
The farmer’s life is a simple life of faith. No person on earth has as much faith as the farmer. Who else pours blood, sweat, tears, and huge sums of money into a venture that is almost 100% in the hands of God, or the government, or often both? Perhaps this is why Jesus used the farmer in so many of His parables. The farmer bears the scars of great disappointments, and yet, is up before dawn, and will work past dusk, trusting that “whatsoever he sows, that shall he also reap…” The farmer’s life is a life of faith in action.
Enemies abound, but the farmer walks by faith. Weather, blight, insects, government regulations, commodity market manipulations, and the day-to-day tragedies that befall each member of Adam’s race, all conspire to defeat the farmer. Perhaps that is why they are in such short supply. The farmer requires almost superhuman optimism and that is becoming increasingly rare in this dark world. Bumper crops bring great joy, followed by disappointment as the bottom falls out of the market due to oversupply, Failed crops mock the many thousands of dollars and hours that were invested in the cultivation, planting and harvest...followed by the realization that the price for this pitiful crop has skyrocketed, because of the scarcity caused by the crop failures. The farmer is a pawn for the bankers and commodity brokers,, and yet he simply dusts himself off, and begins to plan for next year. Thankfully he keeps going, and thereby keeps our freezers in meat, and our pantries stocked with his wares.
Ask a farmer a question and you will typically get a short reply, dripping with common sense. Farmers aren’t confused about genders or mixed bathrooms, because they live everyday surrounded by nature. Aberrations are a part of life, but they are just that...aberrations: unnatural and strange. Queer is word that some embrace, and the farmer would probably agree. Much of what tries to pass today as normal, is queer: defined in the dictionary as “strange, or odd.” I have often said, that with all the craziness that passes as today’s sophistication, what we really need is to sit down with an old farmer and listen to his take on the issues. Most in the world view farmers as simple...and that simplicity speaks volumes about the foolishness of the worldly intellectual. My worldview was shaped by farmers, and for that I'm thankful.
Appearances can be misleading. Farmers are deep thinkers. Nobody thinks as much as the farmer who spends hour after hour on a lonely tractor in the “back 40”, or walking amongst the livestock checking herd health, or anxiously awaiting the midnight arrival of the prize, (hopefully) heifer calf that may become the next Brookview Tony Charity...the greatest Holstein show cow of all time. The farming life is a solitary life with great stretches of precious silence...surrounded by nature. Farmers rarely experience perfection, so for all the farmers out there, here she is! The $1.45 million dollar cow. Having worked with her at Romandale Farms, I can tell you, she wasn’t perfect. (but I digress)
Farming can bring one to tears. I recall as a young boy, my mother’s tears upon the death of one of our prize cows. My father’s response: “Don’t ever cry over a cow. It is just a cow. Save your tears for human death.” My father suffered bitter disappointments and his dream farm evaporated in the skyrocketing interest rates of the early 1980s. As he watched his dream being auctioned off to repay the bankers, I failed to understand just what a devastating loss this must have been for him. A true farmer, he never showed it. Instead, for the sake of his family, he picked himself up, and moved to Virginia, where he reinvented himself as a handyman. Without him making that sacrificial move, my life would be a much different story. It was through that move that I met my precious wife.
Regardless of what he did for a living over the last 30 years of his life, he was always a farmer to me. He could be harsh, he expected a work ethic that was almost impossible to live up to, but my life was blessed because the Lord gave me a farmer for a father. Throughout his life there were three constants: He loved his God, he loved his wife, and he loved his family. So many of the lessons that impact my life today, came directly from this simple farmer.
Happy Father’s Day to my Dad, who is undoubtedly leaning on a rail fence in glory, “chewing the fat” with his farmer friends, a stem of Orchard Grass between his teeth. My dad was a farmer...and I miss him.
In memory of Albert Thomas Clark-Feb. 24, 1941- May 17, 2012
