It had been a summer of sweltering heat, and it was seemingly more hot than the past ten or so summers. Cloudless days were more common than not. He had nothing against the sun, but a few scattered clouds once in a while would be nice. Clouds provided temporary relief from the sun and would do wonders for a man’s energy and stamina. Thankfully, the rain came as it was needed. Not too late, but not nearly early enough.
He reached up to run his hand across his sweat-soaked forehead, inadvertently leaving a trail of dirt across it, which would quickly turn into a line of mud from the streaks of sweat forming on his head. He was working in his garden, and there were no trees nearby to rest underneath.
The hay couldn’t bale itself. This garden couldn’t cultivate itself, nor could these tomatoes harvest themselves. If they could, he’d sit on the shady front porch and sip a cool glass of fresh well-water all day. Maybe read a book or take a nap. No, he had to work. He had found out as a little boy that the only way to get anywhere in life was to work at it. There was much work to be done on a farm, and there was no time left in a farmer’s day to use on frivolity.
The vine-ripened red fruit in front of him was large and juicy. They were ready, and boy howdy, so was he. It was a special kind of thrill to eat the produce from his garden. In addition to picking these tomatoes, he was getting rid of the nuisances. He leaned on his shovel, which was currently serving as a weed extractor. The purpose of using the shovel was twofold: 1) to get the weeds out of the garden and 2) to break up the ground. The handle of his hoe was broken. He needed to find the perfect-sized Sassafras tree and carve a new one from its trunk. But that would take his time away from the more important things needing attention, and this shovel worked fine.
Sid was a farmer. He might even be defined as a rancher by some. Cattle, chickens, two horses, a barn, and three hundred acres might give him that distinction. Standing at just over six feet tall, he was taller than most, if only slightly. He stayed in shape by simply doing what he was supposed to do. His line of work was not very forgiving to the lazy or the unfit. If you were not fit, the farm work was a fitness course. There was no way around getting fit unless you were lazy. And if you were lazy, you wouldn’t last long. Thanks to his years of working on the farm, he was solid as a white oak tree. Slim, but not thin.
Each day started slow. He woke up before sunrise each morning to greet the daylight. He’d poke the leftover embers lying in the cast iron stove from the night before, lay some fresh wood inside, then put the coffee and water in the percolator. The pot would go on the stove then he’d sit at the kitchen table to pray and meditate on Scripture. Before starting the chores, he’d offer a prayer of thanksgiving. He’d thank God for his home, country, and all of his earthly possessions, then he would make sure to articulate his thankfulness for God Himself. Once the coffee was percolated, he’d pour himself a cup.
The rest of the morning’s activities were a blur. He’d feed and milk the cows, gather the chicken eggs, and feed the horses. During his teenage years, he had heard that if you get in the habit of accomplishing specific things every morning, it helps the rest of your day go well. Such as make your bed, pray, those sorts of things. Now approaching his late twenties, he’d formed some good habits. But making the bed had never caught on well with him.
For breakfast, he would usually pull a piece of bread off the loaf in the bread box. He may set the bread on the wood stove for a minute to warm it up and make it more pliable. He might even put a little dab of apple butter on it. He would eat as he exited the door on his way to the barn. Milking the cows was monotonous but also rewarding. He’d always heard, “If you take care of them, they’ll take care of you.” And it was true. Feed and water them, and milk is provided to you. Animals may not be concerned about you so much, but inadvertently, they’d provide what you needed if you took care of them.
The same goes for the garden he was working in. That’s what he was doing, taking care of his vegetables. A garden would provide what you needed as long as it was cared for and cultivated. He started working again. He may not weed the entire garden today, but it was a start. He had been busy in the fields and, for some time, had put off doing this particular chore.
It would’ve been nice to make products to sell from things around the farm. He would like to make butter from the milk he got every morning, but there was no time after a long day out in the field. He would trade some of his produce for things he needed, usually from one of the families in the area. He was almost out of homemade butter, so he’d trade a few of these fresh garden vegetables for butter. He never felt like separating and shaking the cream in a jar after a long day’s work. He had never looked into buying a churn, either. It was easier to trade for some things. He would like to can his tomatoes and green beans. There just wasn’t enough time.
He thought about things around the house that needed to be mended. He wasn’t much for using a needle and thread. A wife was a precious person to have around a farmhouse. He could do some things, but it looked like he did them. And that was the problem. He didn’t want to hire anyone to perform the daily household tasks because the women in the area had way more than their fair share of work to do in their homes.
He needed to find a good woman who would have him. At his age, he was concerned that he might be getting too set in his ways. What if a woman couldn’t handle his way of doing things? Was he in too deep of a rut? He thought maybe he’d meet a lady at church sometime, but until then, his farm was the priority. He believed that one day, God would bring a woman into his life who would supplement him in every possible way and vice versa. He wanted to be a man that a woman would love and appreciate. He looked forward to it.
“It will all work out in time,” he would say to those who asked him about his plans for getting married.
Even as he thought about it, he realized that he had been saying that for a long time, probably for years. Time was one thing of which he didn’t have much. He was busy working on the farm. Planting, growing, and harvesting. He hadn’t been on the lookout for someone with whom to share his life. The only use of his time up to this point was working and going to church every Sunday, which was all well and good. These were important activities to have in life. But there was a little more in life that one needed, something that he had yet to find; the companionship of a spouse.
If marriage was to work out in time, then maybe he should take more time to focus on finding a lady somewhere. That was something he would mull over the next few days.
“Well,” he thought, “There’s a time for everything. But right now, it’s time to weed this garden.”
In Eastern Tennessee, a young lady was boarding a train soon to be chugging its way to Sid’s part of the country.
Her name was Pearl.
To be continued…
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