Father, Farmer, Philosopher

by Vernie Lynn DeMille

 

He came to farming late in life.

A three-quarter life crisis moving him

To something new.

Bringing him to a farm overrun with thistles.

 

With digging fork, pickup truck,

Gloves, a cap proclaiming the local auto parts store,

And jeans that could stand up by themselves,

He called me with him to the fields.

 

On steep hillsides, where Osage orange trees

Lined the fence rows with thorns and fruit

Only good for throwing,

We worked side-by-side.

 

Sweat dripped down my neck,

Beneath my ponytail,

And I could see it on dad’s arms,

Along with scratches, drops of blood, and dirt.

 

The thistles were sharp:

Bull, Canadian, and Musk, with roots longer than

The tines of our forks.

And he didn’t believe in mowing them down.

 

“The only way to get rid of a thistle,

Is to rip it up by the roots.

Otherwise it comes back again and again.”

He told this truth every day.

 

Every day that we spent together, laboring.

My arms as scratched and bloody as his,

My clothes as stained by the work

Of piercing the earth, pulling the weeds,

 

And casting them into a fire to burn

The seeds that would still grow,

Long after the plant was dead,

If they weren’t destroyed.

 

“Thistles are like sins,” he said,

“They get stuck in our souls. 

They change the way we think

And see the world, the way

We treat others, and follow God.

 

“They take root in our hearts

And take the nourishment 

Needed for other growth.

They weigh us down with their 

 

“Thorns and thistles,

Those sharp edges that cut us

And make us bleed and hurt.

There’s no other way to fight them

Than to rip them out.”

 

He held up a thistle then,

It’s purple flower already in full bloom,

The scratches from his battle with it

Weeping blood from the fresh wounds.

 

“It’s not enough to mow them down. 

You can cease to sin, you can stop

Whatever the action is you think is wrong,

But it’s only half the work.

It’s the heart that has to change, 

Not just the actions.

I could mow down this thistle,”

 

He shook its spiny stalk 

And sharp leaves.

“I could mow it down and this ditch bank

Would look weed free.

 

“From the road you’d never know

That the green on the bank

Was the remnant of destruction.

You’d think it lush and lovely.

 

“But close in you’d see that no grass

Was growing to feed the cattle,

No legumes were thriving 

To provide protein. You’d recognize

 

“The green as an illusion.

And then the thistle would grow again,

Because the root of a thing 

Can sustain its growth

 

“Long after the thing itself 

Seems to have disappeared.”

He threw the thistle to the pile above us,

Five feet tall at the top of the hill.

 

I watched it fall, blossom 

Bursting just a little as it landed,

Thistledown breaking free

To carry on the wind.

 

We stood and watched that tuft

Of white blow away to another hillside

And he shook his head.

“We can’t get them all. There are more

 

“Seeds than we can count,

More sins than one man could ever invent.

And for every single one we pull, a hundred more

Take wing and find new ground.

 

“But we have to try.”

He turned back to his ditch bank,

Lifted his cap, wiped his forearm

Across his forehead,

Leaving a streak of blood behind.

 

He picked his digging fork back up,

Settled it’s tip at the base of another thistle

And pushed it in with his foot. 

I watched a moment. Seeing the work

Of weeding sins and thistles.

 

Find the root, pierce the soil, pull the weed.

Watch, work, rest, repeat. 

 

I picked up my fork and went to work

Beside him on the hillside,

Blood and sweat mingling under 

The Midwestern sun.

 

He smiled at me and threw another thistle.

“Farms and people need caretakers,”

He said. I smiled back at him.

 

Yes, I thought, as a root gave way

Beneath the strain of my muscles,

The sweat of my effort, and 

The desire to be weed and sin free:

 

Farms and people need caretakers.

 

November 20, 2019

.

.

.