My Father's Stories of an Unhurried Farmer

My Father’s Stories of an Unhurried Farmer

Written by Dan McDonald

 

            My Dad was Amos McDonald.  He had no middle name, and wasn’t fond of his first name.  There was a story behind his name, that I only found out about after he had passed away.  He’s been gone for twenty-five years this month.  He was born on January 4, 1915 weighing around four pounds.  His mom and dad didn’t have a name ready for him, and several days passed and they couldn’t agree on one.  They had a neighbor in their community that was a bachelor, and he asked my Dad’s parents if they would name my Dad after him since he would never have a son of his own.  My Dad was named Amos for a fellow down the road and because his parents couldn’t agree on a name.  My Dad preferred being referred to as “Mac.”

            Earlier this week a minister gave pastors his opinion that if pastors preached a father’s day message without speaking of the Trinity on this “Trinity Sunday” then they were contributing to a secular mindset.  I have sympathy for that perspective, so fortunately I can say I wrote earlier this week about Trinity Sunday.  But Sunday is also Father’s Day and I have been thinking about the values my Dad seemed to set forth in the stories he used to tell of a certain unhurried farmer.

            My Dad had his share of faults and one of the biggest was how if he was doing some work even with his children, he would be impatient to the point that one wasn't likely to learn much from him in any on the job training.  But when he was finished with a day’s work, he belonged to us kids.  If I asked him a question about life, he would probably answer me with a story.  He only had an eighth grade education, but I think he was something of a sage and I have tried to learn to tell stories like he could ever since I grew up.

            Some of my favorite stories told by my father were told of a farmer I never met named Mark Likens.  Our farm was located in north central Illinois and the area was a blend between farming and industrial cultures.  Our city had railroads, glass factories, at one time coal mines, and in a not too distant past one of the biggest hardware stores anywhere in Illinois outside of Chicago.  But my town’s glory days are now pretty much in the past.  But when I grew up it was an area of prosperous farming with a feel of life lived at an industrialized pace.  Mark was an older farmer my Dad knew.  He was from Kentucky and his pace was a bit slower than most of those around us.  He was the last farmer in our area to farm with mules.

A story my Dad told about Mark was how one farmer asked him, “Mark, why do you still farm with mules, half the time those stubborn critters won’t do anything you want them to do.  Why don’t you get a tractor?”  Mark replied speaking sort of slowly, “I’ve never had any trouble with mules.  There is a trick to working with mules.”  Mark finished his reply saying, “The trick to working with mules is you just got to be a little smarter than the mules.”  I imagine one also needed to be more patient than the mules as well.

There was another story about Mark Likens my Dad liked to tell.  Back in those days; farmers often had farm hands.  Sometimes farmhands would have a past and farmers would be careful not to pry into their farmhands' past.  But Mark’s farmhand didn’t likely have a past he was fleeing.  But he was challenged when it came to his learning and education.  Mark’s farmhand only counted to seven.  He had never learned to count any higher than that.  Mark would pay him according to how many rows he finished.  At the end of the day the farmhand would say something like "I finished seven rows, seven times and four more.”  Everybody that knew Mark; knew he watched out for his farmhand and never took advantage of him.  I think my Dad admired Mark for working with the farmhand.  A lot of people would have dismissed him as having an insufficient level of intelligence.  Mark thought the farmhand had enough intelligence to do the work, and besides like Mark this man was a little smarter than Mark’s mules.  That couldn’t be said for everyone.

I’m thinking back on what my Dad’s stories said to me through the story without words having to tell me what he was saying to me.  I think he was wondering as he told these stories if the world wasn't getting to a place where there would be no room for people like Mark Likens and his farmhand.  I think my Dad wondered about that, as life got more complex, faster, and called on us to have more education and more technical expertise.  I wonder about that sometimes.


I am wondering also about one more thing.  Have you ever wondered if a culture that has no room for people like Mark Likens and his farmhand, has room for any of us?  How long does it take for a world to go from where some of us are no longer needed to where none of us are any longer needed?  There was a story teller once who told stories near the Sea of Galilee.  He sort of figured that if people didn't have room for the least of people around them, then they really didn't have room for him either.  He felt like you knew what was in a person by how they treated the least of people.  Everything else was probably an act, but you let everyone know what you thought of others by how you treated the one who was the least around you.  So I wonder if the culture around me, and also if I have room in my busy hurried life for an unhurried farmer and his farmhand.  How about you?