It was my father’s last act of love for me and my siblings. The remnants of everything he had worked for his entire life was handed to me on a piece of paper. We had closed on his house and property and each of us had received a check as our inheritance.
After Dad’s passing, I had stood in the bathroom and looked out the window into the fields behind the house. For almost ninety years he trampled around these grounds. As a young child, he would no doubt run and play there. He told stories of plowing the fields with a mule.
Then as a grown man, he worked those same fields with a tractor. He plowed and planted rows of corn, potatoes, and other vegetables.
I can still picture him taking food to the pigs, chickens, and cows.
In his later years, he would sit on the back porch, sipping coffee as he watched the sunset. Friendly squirrels would come by for a snack, or a neighbor would drop by for a chat.
Inheritance
The land had belonged to our family for generations. My father grew up in the house just two doors down. My great-grandfather owned hundreds of acres, which were divided among his children upon his passing. Similarly, my grandfather’s land was distributed among his five children when he died. My father inherited several acres where he farmed and raised his family.
As a child, I would cycle along the country roads, passing the houses of my three aunts. I always had a sense that this was our little corner of the world. With relatives living all around, it felt like it belonged exclusively to us.
This country girl was not a farm girl
Dad raised a crop or two of tobacco each year which was tough work. I absolutely hated going to the tobacco patch. It had to be planted, hoed, suckered, cut, and then hung in a barn to cure. It was a terrible day when Mom said, “We are going to the tobacco patch today.” That meant I’d be sitting on a blanket, bored out of my mind, while they worked. I’d take a doll or toy with me but became uninterested in them long before the long day ended.
Occasionally, a train would pass on the nearby tracks. My brother and I would count the cars to break the monotony. When we were older, we actually had to help plant, hoe, and sucker the tobacco. I hated that even more, even though the planting was fun. One by one, we’d put little plants into a machine behind the tractor. It would then automatically plant them into the ground.
Pay day
The work was hard, but the payoff was great. The pleasant aroma of the curing tobacco filled the air throughout the countryside in the autumn.
At the end of the season, he would come home with a big wad of money. He’d count out the $100 bills in front of us. This forever sealed the image in our minds of the value of hard work.
Dad’s final lesson
After his passing, I understood that my father, after nearly ninety years, would never again stroll these lands. It dawned on me that we truly own nothing on this earth. We merely have the privilege of using it during our time here before we must hand it over to others. This is not our everlasting home. We are merely travelers passing through.
Although we no longer own the property, we hold our memories dear. And I’ll cherish forever the legacy of diligence inherited from being a farmer’s daughter.
Yet you don’t know what your life will be like tomorrow. For what is your life? For you are a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. –
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