A Field Trip

Industry, thrift and self-control are not sought because they create wealth, but because they create character.

Calvin Coolidge

He that would be superior to external influences must first become superior to his own passions.


~Samuel Johnson

The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence, but in the mastery, of his passions.

- Lord Alfred Tennyson

He who reigns within himself and rules his passions, desires, and fears is more than a king.

- John Milton

Waiting is one of the great arts.

- Margery Allingham

Life becomes easier when you learn to accept an apology you never got.  

                                                                                                                           ~Robert Brault

The strong man is the one who is able to intercept at will the communication between the senses and the mind.

- Napoleon Bonaparte

He who conquers others is strong; he who conquers himself is mighty.

- Lao-Tzu

Dad assigned the task, picking sticks, I suspect, mainly with the intention of warding off any lack of work ethic we might hint at developing.  Since we moaned, groaned and complained often and loudly, he just kept clearing land.

Mom persuaded us out the door more gently, albeit firmly, with new cowboy boots and hats and long sleeved shirts tucked into our jeans to protect us from sunburn, with a kind of unrelenting impetus. Along with numerous reminders that we needed to get started as soon as possible before the day got any hotter.  And don't forget our water.

Reluctant and grumbling, we gathered up our gloves and water jugs for the trek to the field.  After several of these jaunts, I began to see a pattern, dreading most the first round of stick-picking - where the roots and branches were scattered abundantly before us.  Dad had started clearing a new field, and this one, he had  said as we finished breakfast, trying to prepare us for the work ahead, had been especially root-bound.  No kidding, a daunting task.  My eyes widened as I gulped and took in the sight before me.  

By then I was a veteran, but this field got my attention.  Working together, mainly with my sister three years my junior, we tugged the jagged tree roots from the dry, dusty earth and flung them through the air.  They landed  with a satisfying thunk on the slash pile Dad had been building with the D-6 Caterpillar.  Repeating this action time after time, we worked our way down the field, covering ground steadily.  As the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, we removed our hats, wiped away the sweat and paused for a drink, letting the light breeze cool our hair for a moment.  Returning to our work immediately, we paced ourselves, not too fast, not too slow, moving the tractor and attached trailer with our load, along as we went. 

In my teens, I understood somehow that this was my job, my responsibility to see it through and present to Dad a clean field at the end of the morning.  Moving our way back and forth, sometimes closer to the stack, then moving farther back, we bent, grabbed and threw sticks rhythmically until we reached the end of the field.  Hot, dusty and ready for lunch, we climbed on the Honda 90 and headed back to the house.  There would be no doubt if the job was done to satisfaction.  Dad only had to complain once.  His generously given praise was the best incentive, better even than the paycheck we would receive for our morning's work.  He was proud of our work, and wouldn't accept less than our best.

Despite the high praise Dad dished out, we continued our hearty complaining, perhaps because it seemed we were the only kids around who had to work.  For all the good it did us.  One day, one of our parents' friends decided to come help us for the morning to see what the fuss was all about.  Couldn't be that bad, she declared, and she was going to find out for herself.  She spent the morning with us.  Once.  And never said another word.  It was nice to have the help, anyway. 

We knew Dad would go over the field again with the Cat, and bring up more roots.  And again.  The soil on the farm was sandy in some areas, some summers were drier, hotter.  Bending, picking, throwing - the bigger pieces would twirl like uneven helicopter blades swishing through the air.  Our friends were welcome to come spend the weekend with us.  Under one condition.  We had to tell them that we would be picking sticks and they would be expected to help us.  Seems our friends began to find other times to visit.

I think he even bought adjoining land and cleared some more.  At last it was done, the fields were planted with grain, with hay, and we moved on.  Winter chores were few so we inner-tubed, trying out our snowy hills, then the neighbors'.  After driving the pickup with hay while dad fed the cattle, we went ice fishing and ice skating and had friends over for bonfires, cocoa and games.  When spring came, we cleaned the barns where cattle had wintered and calved.  Then branding day arrived, we ran errands and chutes, but never got brave enough to give shots or do the castrating.  We chased the cows, fixed the fences so they wouldn't get out again, weeded the garden, painted one thing or another, and swept the shop.  

I felt like the teenage queen of fitness; strong, healthy, hungry and thirsty, until I heard the stories of the legends.  My five aunts, when they were girls at home, helped Grandpa cut timber with a cross cut saw, carried water, milked cows, helped with haying, and dug a mile of water line to save their water rights from being taken away.  They had the bulging muscles when it wasn't popular for girls to have them, to show for it, and stories of beating other kids in races on the playground and in the classroom.  There were the stories of my dad who drove loads of logs to school when he was ten years old.  They added water to the stew when company came for supper.  The pigs all died when they got into treated grain, and when Grandpa had to go to the hospital after the accident when the drunk driver crossed the road and hit his wagon of milk in the darkness, Grandma wouldn't accept help for expenses because she was afraid she wouldn't be able to repay them.

And I wonder.  Complain?  Me?  Yes, I did.  And not too proud of it.  Think, my friends.  This is a lot to live up to, in my opinion.  So now, I'm thankful for hot, dusty days in the fields learning the values Dad had about working.  But more than that, I'm thankful that I could turn around and see the effect of what we did, the difference we made in a field that had been marred with jagged pieces of trees and branches, now a smooth surface, marked only by our footprints, ready to be turned again, deeper, this time. That is what we learned, what we earned.  The sense of accomplishment.  Along with the dust, we tasted results.  The spring was perfect, crystal clear, and refreshing.

There is little that can withstand a man who can conquer himself.

- Louis XIV

Discipline is the rejection of instant gratification in favor of something better and higher.

It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?"

Winnie the Pooh

Pooh's Little Instruction Book

Self-command is the main elegance.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Grilled Vegetables

Feasting is the physician's harvest.

Malayan Proverb