I’m not a farmer anymore. Just like that, my home, my farm, my old Ford tractor is gone.
Daddy’s estate sale was Saturday. An enormous crowd showed up, and, almost locust-like, decended on old China patterns, 100-year old quilts, rusty tillers, the farm truck, and the land. 2 days later, a teeny bit of seller’s remorse is creeping in, and, in true Joyce fashion, I’m wondering if I did the right thing.
I know I did, of course. Daddy gave me specific instructions on handling his possessions, his investments. He knew there may come a day that Mom may need medical care, or that I would want another rental property. My whole life, he’s always known. Even when I disagreed with him, and even when I knew he was right and disagreed anyway, he always knew the right thing to do.
I’ve kept telling myself that for the last several weeks- to stay calm, to know that sometimes, a house is just a house, and a land is just land. The memories and the lessons are all that really need to stay with us. Memories like pulling my first calf, or seeding a tobacco tray. I doubt there are many girls in Louisville who know such things. Lessons on cleaning fish, laying hardwood floors… Funky half memories/half lessons like how to rig a pickup to start using a block of wood in the ignition instead of the missing key had me giggling all morning Saturday, and it was the out loud wonder of whether or not I should tell the new owner of daddy’s tiny Farmall tractor that it needed a downhill run to start that finally got the tears to flow.
I finally started crying, and now? I can’t stop. I cried thinking of the downhill start the Farmall needed. I cried walking down to the sawmill. I cried when a fat frog lept into the pond with a yell, and I remembered all the times I waited patiently for the barrel on the tobacco setter to fill with water, and occupied the wait by catching as many frogs and turtles as I could. I once pulled a tiny red-eared slider off the end of the siphon hose and unceremoniously plopped him into my fish tank. He lived a relatively easy life, eating my goldfish, sunning himself in front of the window… Before I decided (at Daddy’s urging) to let him go, I painted his shell. Years later, that same turtle was wandering through our front yard. I couldn’t believe it, but there he was- faded paint job and all.
I still have it all- memories, smells, photos. The knowledge of how to start a winter garden won’t leave me. Neither will the constant yearning for a wide, green space to breathe. I can’t say that I won’t start playing the lottery on the off chance of winning and being able to buy back what was his, but for now, I’m happy. I’m happy that I finally followed his instructions and did what he asked, however difficult it may have been.
Now, Mom and I can finally start to establish a new normal. I can finally give my clients and you- my readers- the attention that’s deserved. Thank you for you patience.
