Strength, humbleness, and manhood; these are all the things that come to mind when I walk into a feed store as the complex aroma of seed, fertilizer and feed all confront my senses. To some, its just the smell of a Southern States, a Tractor Supply or a Rural King. To me, it’s the scent of that old mill back on the edge of our sleepy little town that sat on the banks of the Wabash River, New Harmony.
As a small child, I would watch as my maternal grandfather would work to harvest the corn and magically fill the ancient grain truck with the golden, glowing life source that was to be his income and our food source. Sweat, dust, and hours of labor would go into creating that beautiful mound of golden kernels that sat in the back of the old truck as we rattled down the dusty old gravel road toward town. Grandpa never said why, how or what we were doing, other than the actions of loading, hauling, and driving. The gears would grind under his tanned fist that grasped the shift knob, the pattern of gears long ago worn away so that the operator would have to know its image in his mind. Green blurring fields would pass the open window as the hot September air would blast in my face.
Upon finally reaching the grain elevator, we would back up until the man on the loading dock would yell, “Whoa,” and then the truck would lurch to a jarring stop. Grandpa would reach down to another magic lever and the winding of the hydraulic ram would engage lifting the tons of corn in the back of the truck, spilling the contents of our labors into a grate built into the concrete, disappearing from site.
We climbed the stairs onto the wooden platform to watch, wood so old it had been worn smooth from years of boots grinding the dust into its grain. Nails that held it in place had become one with the aged material, turning black and smooth dotting the walkway in a rhythmic pattern. The smell of grain was a sweet elixir. In the mind of a child, we had brought in the pretty grain that now filled the air with its rich perfume, only to be gone into the trench below us; gone forever. Somehow, my grandpa was happy, although he mumbled under his breath something about falling prices, a foreign language to me back then.
Happily, we climbed back into our rusty old machine and the gears once again grinded into action propelling us into a slow movement forward, pulling away from the mill.
“Are you hungry, boy,” Grandpa would ask smiling down at me, his jaw protruding with his tobacco chaw pulling his skin tight as he smiled a crooked grin.
My little buzz-cut head would nod yes, as I smiled ear to ear.
“You think you can eat a man’s portion today,” he’d say, smiling broadly. The old truck rumbled down the sleepy streets toward the downtown area.
Again, I would nod agreeing, not knowing what that meant other than it sounded like a lot of food.
After leaving the truck parked out front of the row of antique buildings that lined Main Street, we’d walk into the diner, the old door creaking as we entered and the rich smell of home cooked vittles would envelop your stomach, instantly reminding you of the hunger you had not realized had been there before. Ceiling fans circled quietly overhead, as a slight refreshing breeze caressed our sweat laden brows. Grandpa would find his favorite table and pull us up a chair, and put his arm around me.
“Whose this little man,” the waitress would come up smiling, pulling the pencil from behind her ear, preparing to write our order? Another waitress stopped by setting glasses of ice water on our table and smiling over the other’s shoulder as she looked at me like I was a puppy in the pet store window.
“This is my grandson,” Grandpa would reply, now minus the chaw in his jaw, once more smiling proudly.
“A cutie,” She’d say, smiling looking at my grandpa, winking an eye. Most people in town knew who I was and the story behind my mother and father, so for me to show up with my grandpa in town was just another whisper to pass between gossiping mouths.
“We’re going to have two of the specials today. Make them both the man’s meal.”
“You sure he can eat all that?”
He’d look down at me and wink, “Oh yeah, I know he can,” he’d say patting my shoulder,
“He’s my little man.”
The waitress would return soon enough with two plates of equal portion, setting the one before me and smiling, “I hope your hungry sweetie,” she’d say as she’d slide the check under my grandfather’s plate before leaving.
Then I’d dig in.
I’d eat and eat until I could barely move, but I would always eat all that had been set before me. Between my grandpa carrying on and the waitress exclaiming she’d never seen a little fellow eat so much before, I felt like a king.
As we climbed back into that old truck, the heat. The smell of grease and ages of dust would engulf the cab. Weary from the ride to town and the huge meal, I would fall asleep curled up on the threadbare seat before we hit the edge of town, as we rode the old grain truck back out to the farm.
Creating and cultivating began early in my life with knowing that the same place that we left our grain was the same place we bought our seeds. There was a certain well-being in knowing that the old mill was someplace that allowed us to use the earth from which God had created man, to plant the seeds of sustenance, the life-giving bread by which we could survive. Heaven would provide the sunlight and water if we would only be the caretakers of His domain. It was up to us to harvest the bounty and return once more with our precious golden cargo to begin the cycle all over.
Our job as farmers was to use what he gave us to the best of our abilities and to prepare what we could and then pray for sunshine and rain in due time.
Today, the old mill is gone. The vestiges of life that had its cycle of prosperity once and then faded, like the passing of time. Those were simpler times when everything stripped away revealed the barren nature of what it was to be a man, what it was to support your family and what it meant to work hard and reap the rewards. Being the man of the house meant something.
Today, we are constantly being bombarded with messages that try to erase our memories of what it takes to be the leader, the father, the man of the house. Yet, like those days of old, we must strip away all the noise and search for what is within.
We must plow our fields and prepare for the planting.
Yes, the good Lord created us all and it is up to us to cultivate His fields.
“Then God blessed them, and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it; have dominion over the fish of the sea, over the birds of the air, and over every living thing that moves on the earth. And God said, “See, I have given you every herb that yields seed which is on the face of all the earth, and every tree whose fruit yields seed; to you it shall be for food. 30 Also, to every beast of the earth, to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, in which there is life, I have given every green herb for food”; and it was so.” -GEN. 1:28-29
