Unsung Heroes
A young Tank, and his cousin Jay.
The older I get, the more I dislike funerals. This story honors the unsung heroes whose uniforms consist of coveralls and work boots. Their superpowers include the ability to work 16–18-hour days, seven days a week, without complaint. This is their code of honor. The people I’m talking about are our nation’s dairy farmers. I’m proud to say both my grandfathers wore overalls to work, and five of seven uncles were also dairy farmers.
The homemade wood stove in the “butcher shop” built by Brian.
Farmers are the anchor of the community because of the strong work ethic, reliability and sense of right-doing they possess. They’re stewards of land entrusted to them, as well as the cows they raise, milking them twice a day — every day! When there’s a death in the family, the cows still need milking. Their needs never stop. I’ve witnessed this with my uncles when my grandfather died. Immediately responding to my grandmother’s call, they notified the proper people and were milking cows 20 minutes later. It’s a labor of love for sure — for the land, cows, and dedicated lifestyle they live. Farming is surely not for the timid or weak of heart.
First Friends
They say your cousins are the first friends you make. This was true in my family. While my mom and dad grew up on dairy farms, they chose to move south, near Washington, D.C., to pursue other gainful employment. However, the first week of summer vacation, starting with kindergarten, Mom got me a buzz haircut, 3 pairs of Wrangler jeans, and packs of new underwear and T-shirts, the dairy farmer uniform.
While I was there, my cousins would visit my grandmother, establishing friendships that have carried on to this day. Besides summer vacation, the family would gather at Grandma and Pap’s for the big holidays, where I’d rekindle my relationships with my cousins.
My cousin Jay was two years younger than me, so it was only natural we’d pal around during visits to Grandma and Pap’s, the given Pennsylvania names for practically all grandparents. Since June was always the start of summer vacation, we’d help my uncles bale hay. Being young, we did the best we could, but we pitched in, if only to fetch a jug of lemonade for my uncles.
What the “butcher shop” lacked in style was more than made up in the closeness,
warmth and fellowship it provided.
Jay during better times.
Butcher Shop
As time went by, school, sports and other distractions got in the way of my visits to the farm and my cousins, but we always got together for my grandmother’s Christmas party the first Saturday after Christmas. What started as a gathering of young families at one dining table blossomed into 63 people sitting at several different tables in my grandparents’ basement.
After I hired on with the county police, things settled down, and I started going up to my grandparents every week of deer season. My cousins Brad and Jay took over their family farm, which had a makeshift “butcher shop.” After opening day, everyone stopped by with or without their deer, to skin their buck, catch up, have a drink, eat food and warm up by the homemade wood stove my cousin Brian made from two 55- gallon barrels.
All was great. My Pap, uncles, and cousins all looked forward to the butcher shop shenanigans. Ever so slowly, the participants started changing. My cousin’s kids started showing up as older relatives retired to the happy hunting ground. At the blink of an eye, somehow, we became the older guys in the background as the youngsters reached their prime. It’s a natural cycle that’s hard to accept. Where’s that eternal fountain of youth when you need it?
This is what Tank saw, pulling up to the church. Who knew a tractor and hay wagon could cause so much emotion.
Jay
My cousin Jay sadly joined the clan of the Happy Hunting grounds last week as this is being written. It hit close to home, too close, with him being two years younger than me. That damn glioblastoma finally won after he battled so bravely and valiantly. His son and daughters stepped up, taking care of him at his worst. Jay was stubborn, fighting for his life as he continued his farm chores by some miracle.
He was a farmer through and through! He loved his cows, the land, and the hard work required to run a farm. You’d sweat just watching him work. He did so with his brother, Brad, for 45 years, give or take. They say a man always feels better by how much dirt he has under his fingernails. Of course, we’re metaphorically speaking, but Jay thrived on this hard work, and you could tell he loved what he was doing.
He poured his blood, sweat and tears into his life’s work. Just about every Christmas, he’d show up to Grandma’s party sporting a split lip, a gash above his eye, a stoved finger, and always a black fingernail, explaining the injury with a funny story. “That damn breaker bar got the better of me, but I had the last laugh …”
Like most farmers, he was resourceful, able to fix tractors, machinery, or anything mechanical, with baling wire, duct tape and ingenuity. He loved to hunt, yet only had one rifle, a Remington Model 700 BDL .270 he got for high school graduation.
Jay loved talking about farming. When my daughter Samantha showed interest in becoming a veterinarian, his ears perked up, and they would talk about it at length. Samantha said it was Jay’s influence that made her choose large animals. He helped coordinate visits with his own vet, Dr. Shawn, so Samantha could shadow him for a few days on three different occasions. Whenever I was in town, Jay would want the low-down on Samantha’s progress. He was truly interested and cared about her future.
No matter how dire the circumstances, farmers never lose faith.
Newborn calves need to warm if it’s too cold outside. Jay told us the first two hours were critical.
It must have been cold that day. Who else but a farmer would do this?
Jay was always sharing his love for farming, especially with his grandkids!
The last hayride.
Even at his worst, Jay looked after his cows.
Tractor Pull
Pulling up to the church, I saw Jay’s tractor hooked to his hay wagon — for his final hayride. I was doing well holding my emotions in until seeing this, when the floodgates opened. During the service, Jay’s faith was talked about. When you think about it, farmers live on faith! Their very livelihood depends on it. “When I plant these seeds, will the Lord provide the rain and sunshine needed?” every farmer asks himself.
No matter the outcome, farmers know they’ll eventually get through the toughest of times. Whether it’s nursing a calf through the night, only to lose it, or losing power during milking from an ice storm, farmers will get through it. They have no choice. From dealing with burst pipes during winter’s wrath or oppressive heat while baling hay, the farmer gets through it, all to provide milk for us.
Jay’s three daughters gave beautiful eulogies, and his daughter-in-law told a funny story displaying his great sense of humor.
When the service was over, Jay was loaded onto a hay wagon, and he was poetically pulled to his final resting place by a John Deere tractor. It was a beautiful service honoring a wonderful man, father, grandfather, brother, uncle, and cousin. And on the 8th day, God made a farmer…
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