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There is a voice that cries out from the dust. It is filled with stories of dreams and adventures and trials and sorrows; of tears and sweat and agony and song. It speaks from a past that mingles with the present and rises up from the ground like a fog on a windless morn. It is the voice of the land that is embedded with tales of the past. The stories are hidden from all except for the few that take time to discern its clues. One such clue is its names. These are names neither decided upon by a committee nor instituted by Congress. They have an origin more powerful than mere governments can institute. These names arose from the land itself. At some point in history they originated and were carried along through the generations from parents to children like an unbroken chain. They live amongst us today all across our land and are as varied as the folk who have worked them. The “Long Cut,” the “Milton Field,” the “Quarter,” the “Grasshopper” and the “Clubhouse Field” are just a few of the thousands of titles given individual fields. They are now part of our language and carry each field’s unique personality. The “Long Cut” has long rows, is high on each end and wet in the middle. I know this for it has told me so, just as it informed my father and grandfather. The Clubhouse Field has long lost its clubhouse. It was a gathering place for my grandfather’s generation when fences were few and foxes were not. Some days I still hear them on their horses in the chase. And it will always be called the Clubhouse Field.
The old folks will call our farm the “Old Doctor Duck” farm. Just by using that name tells one volumes about the one speaking, for he is from another era. Sparky says Dr. Duck was a heavy man, though no one knew how heavy. The young lad that rode with him discovered his weight by secretly marking the springs of the buggy when Dr. Duck sat down. At a later time it reportedly took 600 pounds to bring the spring to the same point. And then there’s the Milton Field. I have no idea where the name came from. It’s just what my dad always called it. That field seemed to like nutgrass and wiregrass. We spent many a day trying to convince him otherwise, just as those before me did. And I know that somewhere down in that soil is my grandfather’s sweat, the footprints of his mule, the imprint of his hoe. Though he is long deceased, I hear him sigh as he looks to the sky for rain and hear him sing as the thunderclouds form. And now my sweat has mixed with his and my tractor tire print has joined with the rut of his buggies’ wheel, and the land feels a part of me.
Once again, the land is speaking.
The Magic of Rain
It’s hot and it’s dry. It hasn’t rained in three weeks. The corn is rolled up tighter than a Cuban cigar. The peanuts are shriveled up as if embarrassed to be seen, and cotton is drooping like a hound dog’s ears. It’s ninety-five degrees, and there’s not a cloud in the sky. Every day it looks a little bit worse and every day that passes without rain you know there will be fewer crops to pick. You drive down to the mailbox, kicking up dust everywhere, and doggone if you didn’t get more bills. You didn’t know the fertilizer bill would be that much and that rear tractor tire had to be replaced, and here’s a vet bill for the cow you had trouble calving. Your whole body is tense all over. You go home and the blame dog is in the way. Heck, all he does is eat. The kids are misbehaving and you aren’t crazy about your wife’s new hair-do. Your truck needs brakes and your child needs braces. You cut on the TV and the weatherman says the forecast looks beautiful. Five more days of nothing but sun. And then someone in your household mentions something about the possibility of new carpet. Goodness gracious. We just put that new carpet in twenty years ago. It’s hardly broke in. You go to bed straining to hear just the slightest sound of a rumble to the west. Just anything. But you don’t hear a thing and finally sleep brings a short escape from the tension.
Then a miracle occurs.
It rains. At night, when you can’t work anyway. Not just a shower, but a good soaking rain that fills the ditches and leaves water standing in the middles, a rain that destroys the dust and raises the creeks. A rain that reaches way down in the ground to the deepest roots and soaks them until the soil simply can’t hold anymore.
You get up the next morn and walk over to the empty rain gauge. You see the water level sitting on two inches and your body kinda shudders. You pick it up to pour it out and there’s just something about picking up a rain gauge in July with the weight of two inches of water that invigorates a man’s soul.
You drive around the farm and see the water just standing around the buildings and in the puddles and running down the paths and in the middles. The air has a freshness to it. The colors are brighter. The corn, like a fist, has released its tight grip. The peanuts are green again and the cotton has come alive. Looks like it might be a crop to pick after all. You drive home and your kids greet you. Why, you must have some of the best kids around. Your wife looks awful good. Her new hair-do is growing on you and looks kinda cute. Your old dog is a right good-natured boy and you reach down and give him a rub. You notice the floor and over supper you discuss the possibility-just the possibility, mind you- of perhaps one day looking at some new carpet.
Ah, the magic of rain.
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