Seeing the Ram Trucks Super Bowl commercial with Paul Harvey talking
about farmers, made me pretty sentimental. I heard that voice—that deep,
soothing, slow-talking voice—and it took me back 25 years to a 13-year-old
Nebraska farm girl sitting down to lunch with her family (or “dinner” as they
call the middle-of-the-day meal in the Midwest). My family was not a
church-going family, though I believe we lived the highest values. And, I guess
Paul Harvey was kind of our minister, delivering his sermons every day at lunch.
And, somehow, remembering this brought up a lot of questions—questions to
myself about where I came from and where I have chosen to raise my children.
And, now … the rest of the story.
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| Some call it the closest thing to Heaven. |
My family’s farm was 14 miles from the nearest town, and that town was
population 900. Ten of those miles were driven on gravel roads, where sliding into
the ditch after a good rain or snow was not uncommon, and where I found myself
changing many flat tires. It was another 30 miles beyond that to the nearest
movie theatre, which I believe runs only two movies simultaneously. Our nearest
neighbor was a mile away. The only trees were planted by the farmers to shield
their homes from the treacherous winter winds. There were more cattle in the
county than people, and some of them were my best friends. And, everybody
waves. Yep, the one-finger wave from the steering wheel. My city slicker
husband still can’t get over that one.
While to some, that sounds like the closest thing to Heaven; I could
not wait to get out. I knew I was city-bound, though I did not know where.
Since then, I have bounced around the country and landed in a mid-sized city in
Virginia, with pretty much all the amenities a person could need or want. It is
the city my husband and I chose five years ago to raise a family. Now, I
question whether we made the right choice. Coming from a small town seems like
such a sheltered life, but now it seems that’s just what parents want—to
shelter their children from what seems to have become a scary world, at times.
Where I grew up, the kids worked. I mean, really worked. Cleaning your
room, taking out the garbage, doing dishes, mowing the lawn, shoveling snow,
feeding the cattle during a blizzard after school and before you started
homework … that was not work. Those were chores. We were the hired hands on our
farm. I turned baby bulls into steers. I climbed to the top of grains bin when
it was 100 degrees as the auger emptied dusty wheat into them. I tromped down
hay in a metal cage to build 20’ haystacks. I tilled the fields in the tractor.
One summer, the only way my dad would let me go to volleyball camp is if I
agreed to milk the cow once a day for the summer. Damn, I hated it! But,
sometimes I think about what little work ethic I will be able to instill into my
kids where we live now.
We rarely went to a restaurant of any kind. It’s likely that once every
six months is a generous estimate. Now, we have family date night at a
restaurant once a week. But, it occurred to me that maybe noisy restaurants aren’t
the right place for family date night. It’s hard to hear. We’re always worried
about the baby getting restless. I stress over how much food has hit the floor
and over tip because of it. How much “quality” family time is that? It gets me
out of cooking and doing dishes, but sometimes it’s just more calming to be
home. Maybe it would be better for my family if I didn’t have the option.
The only time we would have fast food was on a once a year trip to see
my relatives in Wichita, KS, or when our high school bus would stop at the
nearest McDonald’s after an away game. I will admit my kids eat fast food an
average of once a week. Though, when doing so, I do my best to choose the
healthy options—white milk and fruit, no fries. But, that’s never going to be
better than what I could cook for them at home. The many chain restaurants
stare me down as I drive the kids home after school, knowing my options at home
are slim. It’s just too easy. It would probably be better for my family if I
didn’t have those choices.
Organized sports during the school year didn’t exist until 5th
grade, and that was a few weeks of basketball on Saturdays during the winter.
Where I live now, you could overlap activities for 3-year-olds all year long if
you wanted. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to make the choice to enroll them or
not to.
The only stores I went to with my mom were in our small little town,
and the toy selection was … well, it wasn’t. I take my kids to Target on a
weekly basis, and all I feel like I do is say “No.” While these conveniences
just five minutes from my house are wonderful, sometimes I wish I never had to
take my kids anywhere where they would see something they want. The battle is
tiring.
When I was a kid, we didn’t have soccer nets, fancy baseball equipment,
children’s museums, or parks down the street. We created our own fun with
anything we could find around the farm. Old window weights, the gas tank, and a
light pole were bases for baseball. Our bat was an old wooden bat I think my
dad used as a kid. We got roller skates one year for Christmas, but the only
smooth surface was a sidewalk/patio at the front of our house that took about
6.5 seconds to round—and that was if there was no collisions or you didn’t trip
over the crack in the sidewalk. We created our own track meet with some hoed up
dirt and an old board for a long-jump pit, and some homemade stands to hold a
bamboo stick and a pile of hay for the high jump. Sometimes I wonder if my kids
will ever want something so much they will invent it themselves.
I despised every one of those things as a child, but look so fondly on
them now. I guess it says a lot about my parents that they were able to send
five kids out on our own with an appreciation of where we came from—and
wondering if it isn’t the best place to raise our own children. But, even if I
came to the conclusion that raising my children on a farm in Western Nebraska
was the best for them, I couldn’t do it. The life of the small American farmer is
a tough one—and getting tougher every day. I’ve become too soft and too selfish
for that life. Paul Harvey’s story was a lump-in-the-throat reminder of what
this country was built on, and how far we have gotten away from it. My only
hope is that those values will carry through to my children, regardless of
where they are raised. God bless the American farmer.
Good Day.
Click here to see the Ram Trucks and Paul Harvey commercial.
