Dear County Agent Guy by Jerry Nelson

Author:Jerry Nelson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Workman Publishing Company
Published: 2016-03-22T20:16:46+00:00

Uncle Wilmer

What do you say when a family farmer dies?

Is it enough to say that his rows were straight, that his furrows ran true? That he kept his fences taut and that you never saw any thistles growing upon his land? That he was a good neighbor in the biblical sense, one who was always quick to lend a hand in time of need? Small things, good things, all of those. But somehow, not nearly enough.

These questions came to the fore when my uncle Wilmer, Dad’s brother, passed away. Like Dad, Wilmer died suddenly and unexpectedly while doing chores.

The next day, my wife and I drove the mile and a quarter east from our house over to Bev and Wilmer’s place. As we approached their front door, we were met by Wilmer’s rotund blue heeler. I stopped to pet the old dog and wondered who might scratch him behind the ears now that his master was gone.

We went inside. Awkward handshakes from Bev and Wilmer’s sons, the now-grown men who, once upon a time, were the boys I spent summers with, playing 4-H softball. Gentle hugs from Bev and Wilmer’s two daughters, their Nordic good looks reminding me of an old photograph of our youthful grandma Nelson on her wedding day.

Small things, good things.

Next came a big hug from Bev. Teary eyes and lumps in throats. But what to say? We all know that the day will come when we will have planted our last row of corn, when we will finish our final harvest. A day when we will feed our last cow or sow and climb out of that tractor or combine cab for the final time.

We who work with the rhythm of the seasons and the cycles of life know these things all too well. But none of that seemed to matter now.

I thought of telling Bev that Wilmer had lived his life as a good farmer should, communing daily with the Almighty beneath the great cathedral of the sky. That his family and farming were a part of his soul and that he would never be any farther away than the soil he so lovingly tilled.

It was as if Bev had read my thoughts. “Wilmer was doing what he loved to do,” I heard her say.

A good thing, that. A very good thing indeed.

If there be such a thing as Farmers’ Heaven, Wilmer is up there right now. I can imagine him sitting on the seat of his Super H on the headland of a field near the house. The vernal breeze wafts over him benevolently; the slumbering land stretches out before him like a canvas awaiting the master’s brush.

Turning on the seat, Wilmer gazes back toward the farmstead. He can see his wife hanging clothes on the line while their young children play on the emerald lawn. The sun casts a golden hue and warms Wilmer’s face.

Wilmer puts the plow into the ground, lets out the clutch, and throttles up. The plow bites into the rich black loam and slices a clean, sharp furrow.

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