Growing Up??

I could have done it. It wasn’t that far and my depth perception is still pretty good. Right foot on top of the fuel tank and left foot on the side of the pickup box and ta-daa! Eight feet max from the swather platform to the fuel tank, then maybe seven or eight more to the pickup. I contemplated it. I visualized it. I thought, “Who am I kidding?” I climbed down from the swather, walked around the fuel tank, and put the tailgate down on the pickup to get my tools. There’s too much summer left to give in to my ego and get hurt.

Yes, I’m afraid those days are slipping away. Invincibility paired with quick healing are seemingly things of days past. It has been a gradual learning curve, but I’ve come a long way over the years. My better half driving me to the ER is happening less and less frequently.

She had fair warning. We hadn’t dated a month when she got to haul me to the hospital the first time. Why is it always such a surprise when I get hurt? I always think, post accident, why did I think that was a good idea? I wonder what my lovely pre-bride would have thought or done if she would have known that this was just a prelude of things to come.

It was a week or two before county fair. My niece’s steer was tied up in the barn during a rainstorm. Lightning struck the barn and must have grounded through his brain, because he was nuts after that and a twelve year old certainly wasn’t going to be able to show him. Sometimes it’s good to be young and strong and dumb, sometimes it’s not. This was probably the latter. I told her dad I could walk it out of him.

We tied a new lariat to the end of his halter. My plan was simple. I would hold on close to his chin and turn his head when he got jumpy. If he tried to get away, my brother could lock down on the lariat, and he’d stop. That was the theory. All was well for about thirty feet. The steer tried to make a break for it and I leaned into his halter and bent his head around. He wasn’t slowing down much, so my brother set his feet and that new rope stretched out nice and tight. Why I thought 300 pounds and 25 feet of rope where going to neutralize a crazed 1300 pound steer is beyond me, today. For a moment it seemed to work though. That rope stretched out like one of those balloon launchers before he couldn’t hang on any longer. It shot between the steer and me, over the halter, then wrapped under the halter back behind us. It was off to the races and I was basically tied to the steer.

We went step for step most of the way around the corral before I got tangled up in all the rope and went down. Apparently, that was the moment he had been waiting for. Now, Angus are a Scottish breed, but he did that Irish river dance thing on my legs. When he got tired of pulverizing me, he took off like a race horse and unwound me like a yo-yo. That nice new nylon rope went around and around and took most of the skin off my belly, chest, and back. I was so happy to be free of that calf I just laid there thinking how comfortable the mud in the corral was.

When I decided that my feet were pointing the right direction, and I didn’t seem to be losing too much blood, I sat up to see what I’d missed. My brother had dallied the steer to the fence and was beating him over the head with a board. When he was satisfied he had made his point he looked over at me and asked, “Are you OK?” Surprisingly, yes, I was OK, for a while.

I was young, and thought I was tough, and was desperately trying to impress a lady, so I didn’t say much for a couple days. My bride to be and I were having lunch and I was not talking about my 4-H skills. When we finished I stood up and everything turned yellow and down I went. She insisted on taking me to the ER which I argued feebly against. They x-rayed my legs and found I had nothing more than a broken ego. My legs looked like those dance charts in music class though, only hoof prints instead of shoe prints from my waist down. The ER doctor looked at my ribs and the leg x-rays and said, “This happened three days ago? Cowboys are idiots.” I didn’t tell him I wasn’t a cowboy, and I couldn’t argue with the adjective.

What happens in South Dakota, stays in South Dakota

I’ve spent a lot of hours in the hay field the last couple weeks. A person has time to think and reflect out there by yourself, churning out bale after bale. I’m not sure what it was about the day. The sky was a bright blue, with those low, puffy, marshmallow clouds floating by. It was cool for July, has been all summer. All the colors, sounds, and smells were just right to take me on a trip down memory lane.

My folks always took in the new teacher, or pastor, or whatever wayward waif came through town. The summer I was six, it was my brother’s shop teacher. He was getting married in the middle of South Dakota, and it must have rained because we were headed for the wedding.

It was a little tiny Catholic country church that maybe held 40-50 people. It was a beautiful, cool summer day, perfect for a wedding. I don’t remember much about the first part of the ceremony, but I began to pay more attention when it was time for communion. The priest didn’t look much older than the bride and groom to a six year old, so I’m going to just say now, as an older, wiser person, he was still learning.

He consecrated three big chalices of wine, and began communion. I assume he assumed everyone there was of the Catholic persuasion. It turned out only the bride, her parents, an aunt, and her new husband were Catholic. The rest of us were apparently Lutherans and Hutterites. I didn’t understand the situation at the time, but the young priest, after communing a total of five people, had a dilemma. He started in on the first chalice without difficulty.

This is were a six year old started to take notice. I have to chase a squirrel now. Isn’t it odd to think back about your parents. I’m ten years older now than they were when we sat in that pew all those years ago. That’s how old I always see them. 40ish. I would guess my brothers see them younger than that as I was kind of a tag along. Anyway, when the priest started in on number two, I asked, “What’s he doing?” I just asked Mom, but in a church that size, I verbalized what everyone was thinking. Mom hushed me, and sort of put me in a head lock. When he started on chalice number three, I said, loudly, “Is he gonna drink it all?” My parents stared straight ahead, but the priest gave me a kind smile and nodded to me before he finished the last of the wine.

I give him a ton of credit. I don’t remember noticing anything odd until the last song. He had a firm grip on the lectern and sort of swayed in big circles along with the music. After that I couldn’t understand him the rest of the ceremony. I’ve been to countless Catholic weddings and funerals since that sunny July day, but it’s the only one the priest ever spoke in tongues. It was interpreted just fine though, because the bride and groom kissed and we all had cake and punch, which is the only reason a six year old goes to a wedding anyway. Who am I kidding? It’s the only reason a fifty year old goes to a wedding.

Identity Crisis

For the 86th time, on the fourth of July, the entire country celebrated my mom’s birthday. Those of you that know her, know she has her quirks and strong opinions.

Allison leaned back and said, “Do you know what one of my favorite things your mom did over the years was?”

I was hesitant to answer. Was she serious? Sarcastic? Was I suppose to guess?

“I just loved it when she duct taped a big X on her suitcase when we flew somewhere.”

I don’t know if it was because she was a child during the depression, or because her and dad didn’t have two nickels to rub together through the 50’s and 60’s, but she didn’t want to lose anything, and by golly someone might take her luggage by mistake. Never, in all of our travels, did I see a similar, enormous, circa 70’s, green, hard-sided suitcase, but the one I did see had a large silver X on it. Come to think of it, she never lost it either.

I made a comment about the generation. The cake pans, tupperware, and folding chairs all had names on them. They all loved to share, but they needed the necessities back. Then I made my mistake. I always have to tell a story. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

I was 21 and sharing a drink with an attractive young lady. The way I remember it, I was making good headway and the evening was looking promising. She giggled at the appropriate times and gave the overall impression that she was enjoying my company. She seemed quite interested in my shirt. She played with my sleeve and, I guess, checked out the quality, because she wanted to know what brand it was.

It was a new shirt and I didn’t know, or care what brand it was. Most of my nice clothes had disappeared at college, so I had gone shopping to replace them. I asked the gal at the store what looked good, and that’s what I bought.

So, that’s how I got to this point in the evening, pretty girl, leaning in close, and my heart rate beginning to rise. Just so all of you know, that was the high water mark in the evening. I told her to check and see what kind of a shirt it was. She pulled my collar back with one hand, and quickly covered her mouth with the other.

“What brand is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s it say?”

She tried to stifle the laughter, but she failed. She finally said, through gasps, “It says, DAN HUEBNER!”

Mom strikes again. My mother, bless her heart, had sewn my name into every article of clothing I owned. Where she found fabric name tags is beyond me, but the air rushed out of my entire evening and ego like a big balloon. It made about two loops and went ‘thud’ on the floor.

It’s not like it’s going to damage our marriage, at this point, but my lovely bride laughed way too hard at that story. She sat on the couch and laughed. She let out a snort a short time later just thinking about it. Then she walked by me on her way to bed, quietly chuckling. I thought she was going to reach over and check my collar.

I used to like Spotify

The kids got me hooked on Spotify. I build my own playlist, pirate theirs, and search all kinds of random music. When I’m in the shop, I usually pick an artist and hit shuffle. It’s nice background while I’m working on a project.

Last week, I was getting the drill ready to plant sorghum-sudan grass and thought a little throw back country sounded fun. I saw Restless Heart in concert three times during college, but hadn’t given them a listen for years. I hit shuffle, thinking I would hear a wide range of old favorites. I did and it was fun to wake up some old memories. What I wasn’t prepared for was Christmas music. I realize I hit shuffle, but I never thought they’d mix in, nor did I know there was, Restless Heart Christmas music.

Now, everyone knows I love Christmas music all year long, so it should have been sort of awesome, having random, jingly Christmas music in the shop. What caught me off guard was the song itself. I’ve got a boy at basic training right now, and the other one is a senior. Both are three inches taller than me and way better looking than I ever hoped I could be. They should thank their mother. Anyway, when “Old Toy Trains” came on, it set me back a bit. You know the one, ‘Old toy trains, little toy tracks, little boy toys coming from a sack’.

I started thinking about the North Pole Mining Company. Every Christmas, the boys would get out every toy truck we had and haul load after load of silver and gold out from under the tree. It was quite a business. Last Christmas, they still put several of the trucks around the tree, but not nearly as much mining took place as in years past. It’s difficult for a business when the partners pursue different interests or are just plain over qualified for the work itself and the remaining partner’s knees can’t handle scooting around on the floor like they used to. I hated to even think about shuttering such a lucrative, albeit, seasonal business.

I was kind of fiddling with the seed tubes on the drill when the song was coming to an end. I thought I was having some sort of allergic reaction. I had heartburn, and my throat was tight, and my eyes were kind of watering. It was that, or I was having a very rare tender and poignant moment. Fortunately for me, my screwdriver slipped and went through the end of my thumb. I felt better after that. What did I learn? No more Spotify in the building.

Nostalgia

A sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past. That’s what can happen when you stumble onto a long lost treasure in your parents garage. I was putting my mom’s Christmas decorations away when I came across a Kodak Carousel slide projector and around 1000 slides from the 70’s. My dad had started transferring the slides to VHS years ago, but only got a couple of years done. The old projector had quit, and he got distracted with other projects, so there it sat. Thanks to the internet, I found the parts, and for $17 and a little ingenuity, I was in business.

When the fan began to whir and the light came on I was transported back to my youth, which come to find out, was not a spectacular season for fashion, but was filled with a wonderful cast of characters and some amazing adventures.

Let’s start with my brothers. I have promised not to use any of the pictures under threat of extreme duress. They graduated in ’71, ’72, ’74, and ’79. Haircuts were optional and the colors were BOLD. They owned an array of checkered, plaid, paisley, striped, and crazily patterned pants, shirts, sweaters and sport coats. In the winter, anyway, because summer on the farm in the 70’s only short, short cut offs were required. They were some thin, yet tanned lads back in the day. I can only be thankful that I was youngest and could blame mom for dressing me. Although, it appeared that I only had two shirts through most of grade school.

Friends and family seemed to be in every frame. That’s how it should be and that’s really how I remember it. There were pictures of birthday parties, Christmases, reunions, anniversaries, baptisms, weddings and more. Community events like the Fall Festival and County Fair were huge highlights and brought a flood of memories. Laughter was certainly a theme throughout, and I’m thankful for that. I know it’s not that way all the time, but it makes for better memories seeing smiling faces.

One of the more noticeable changes was the farm. It’s a lot like watching your children grow. You see them every day and don’t notice that they’re getting taller and maturing. A friend can show up and say, “Wow, they’ve grown so much.” The farm is that way. I’ve lived here 50 years and hadn’t put much thought into the transformations. The trees grew. The buildings changed colors and new ones popped up. The neighborhood has developed and more people drive by.

The sunsets and sunrises, storms(snow, rain, and hail) and rainbows, and cranes and geese, haven’t changed. My mom made sure we knew that, because she photographed them all. The corn, wheat, and cows along with the cold and hot seemed to remain constant.

I’ll be honest. I did get a little wistful and sentimental. Mostly, looking at the faces. I miss my dad. I love to see him young and in the middle of all the stories I tell. I miss my brother and feel bad he didn’t have the opportunity to grow old. I could close my eyes and hear the voices of aunts, uncles, and grandparents who have been gone for years, but were suddenly close again. All this from some simple slides, stored away in the garage for ages.

Break out some old pictures this weekend. Grab those photos, slides, super 8’s, or even the new fangled VHS’s and stir up some wonderful memories (fashion optional).