My Parents Own a Farm

When summer vacation rolled around, we stayed at home all day. Some days a couple of us kids would get bored and want to go out to the woods for exploring and a picnic. So we'd pack up a few sandwiches and put Kool-Aid in a thermos (which were made with glass or something inside at that time). Well, five minutes into the trip (maybe we'd make it to the woods, maybe not) it was picnic time. We'd devour the sandwiches and then we'd race into the woods and be climbing trees, playing in the creek, climbing rocks…high adventure. When we'd get home, Mom would yell at us for shattering the inside of the thermos. But the next time we'd want to go on a picnic, she'd let us. That was America.

Sometimes I'd climb the apple tree right outside the house. If you climbed to a certain point, there was a weird smell. Its smell reminded me of wet dog food. I don't know what caused that smell. Maybe my brother was storing wet dog food up there. Maybe it was rotting wood. Maybe it was something totally different. But that smell was always there and I'd keep climbing that tree. That was America.

It's still fun to lie on the ground and look up at the clouds. You find a nice mostly-sunny day with those big puffy clouds. The grass is so soft you can almost feel how green it is. You look up and try to figure out what images the cloud shapes were portraying. Then you'd be distracted by the long trail left by an airplane so small you could barely see it. But then you'd go back to looking at clouds. That is America.

Evenings on the farm are a joy, too. You just sit in a lawn chair or lie down on the ground and look at the stars. You try to imagine what's out there. Then you realize what is out is unimaginable. Then you try to imagine how impossible it is to imagine what is out there. This is especially fun during a meteor shower. Your imagination interrupted by shouts of "there's one!" by someone pointing to a part of the sky even though it's too dark to see the person's arm. That is America.

When I was kid, my parents grew crops (corn, oats, and hay, mostly), but couldn't afford heavy machinery. So they'd hire someone to harvest oats. The neighbor would drive up in a HUGE combine (I loved big farm machines) and start harvesting away. Sometimes the neighbor would let me ride in the cab with him. That was awesome! He even had a CB radio! But usually, I'd just sit and watch him go back and forth. The front picked up the oats, the hopper stored the oats, and the back spit out the oat stalks (which later became "straw"). Every which way, dust was flying. Then a big grain truck would rumble out to the combine and the big tube on the combine would empty the hopper into the back of the grain truck. The truck driver would open the truck cab door, climb the side of the truck, grab a handful of oats, and throw it back from where he had just grabbed it. That is America! That is Heartland America!

Sports of all kinds were played on my parents' farm. Football, baseball, basketball; Lord help us, even tennis was tried once or twice. Now, we're old. We play sports like bocce, croquet, and sit-on-your-butt-while-the-kids-run-around-doing-whatever-it-is-kids-do. We've worn bare spots in the lawn. We've bumped things, strained things, twisted things, and have even broken things; many of which were body parts. But we played sports. And that is America.

In the winter, there can be huge snowdrifts on a farm. So big that you can build your own snow cave. Just carve a big hole in the snowdrift and sit inside, drawing on the walls with your finger. In the back of your mind, you hear Mom telling you it's dangerous; if it caves in, you're in trouble. But this is my space. This is something to call my own. That is America.

These are a few of my stronger memories. They are not the same memories my parents have. They are not the same memories my siblings have. They are not the same memories that guy three states over have. That is because we are different. We are diversity. That is America.

We are stunned by national tragedies. The greater the tragedy, naturally, the more we are stunned. We often cannot comprehend a future that in any way resembles our past. I think it will. We will come away from this with a few more wrinkles, a few more gray hairs, and a few more emotional scars. But we will come away from this.

People will pray, people will mourn, people will help those who need help, and people will learn. Then, people will do what they were doing before.

People will attend worship services. People will donate blood. People will smile at strangers. People will go bowling. People will drink tall glasses of ice cold lemonade. People will vote in the next election. People will choose not to vote in the next election. People will get "ice cream headaches." People will complain about Dante Culpepper throwing three interceptions against the Carolina Panthers. (What on earth was he thinking?) People will drive 53 miles per hour in the "fast" lane. People will refuse to believe it's not butter. People will do darn near whatever they want to do.

For this is America.

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If you have any constructive thoughts on my commentary, let me know. If, for some reason, you'd like my opinion on a certain topic and want to suggest a commentary topic, let me know that, too. My e-mail address for such endeavors is mark@wentzmania.com.

© 2001, Mark Wentz