Posts

Tilling the Past: Longing for the Land and Loved Ones

/in /by

For centuries, dedicated men and women have toiled to cultivate crops that sustain life, their labor enriched by nature’s gifts—fish from clear streams, game from dense forests, and wild greens, fruits, nuts, and berries. Fertile land, the backbone of survival, has always been a prize.

Before America’s founding, monarchs granted such land to loyal allies or passed it through noble families, with workers bound to the soil under new lords. Other systems existed, but control over prime land and water often defined power.

Today, that legacy lingers in the sprawling farms we pass on country roads. Driving through America’s heartland recently, I marveled at miles of farmland once alive with rows of corn, beans, tomatoes, okra, and squash, where cattle grazed and chickens scratched the earth. Now, many fields lie quiet, cut for hay or reduced to small gardens near farmhouses. Economic pressures—rising costs, market demands—have pushed families to grow just enough for themselves, no longer feeding neighbors or distant markets. Corporate farms churn out much of what stocks grocery shelves, their scale dwarfing the efforts of traditional farmers. Yet, resilient family farmers endure, raising cattle or crops with grit, their produce often fresher and more wholesome than heavily processed alternatives.

These farms pull me back to childhood summers, when fields burst with life. I can feel the heft of a tote sack as I tugged corn from the stalk, tassels dancing in the breeze, or sliced okra pods with my pocketknife, their prickly skins filling the bag.

Harvest days meant trudging through tomato rows, filling boxes with sun-warmed fruit. At noon, we’d gather under a sprawling oak, spreading tablecloths on the grass. A sharp knife sliced fresh tomatoes, tucked between white bread with salt, pepper, and JFG mayonnaise—a meal so simple, yet rich with the land’s goodness.

By then, our family’s farming was shifting from market crops to self-sufficiency, but I still recall the sweat-soaked days of working for market, each task lightened by shared laughter.

I don’t miss the backbreaking labor, the relentless sun, or the heat. What I crave is the closeness of toiling alongside loved ones, our bond with each other and the land making every effort worthwhile.

May your home—your own patch of earth—yield enough to sustain your family. If it doesn’t, plant a small garden, visit a farmers’ market, or learn where your food comes from. Rediscover the joy of nurturing the land and the community it feeds.

Candor—Blessing, Curse, or Both?

/in /by

We’ve all been there: someone you care about asks for your honest opinion, and suddenly you’re standing at a crossroads. Do you tell the unfiltered truth or soften it to spare their feelings? Maybe it’s a loved one asking, “Does this dress make me look fat?” Or perhaps it’s your boss, brimming with enthusiasm, seeking your thoughts on their latest “game-changing” idea. What do you say when the truth might sting—or worse, land you in hot water?

I learned this lesson early, at the tender age of four, in a moment that still makes me chuckle (and cringe). My mother and her girlfriends had stumbled into a side hustle selling wigs—a practical solution for busy mothers who couldn’t always make it to the beauty parlor. With budgets tight and schedules packed, a wig was a godsend: pluck it off a Styrofoam head, slip it on, and voilà—you were ready to face the world, looking as glamorous as Dolly Parton, who helped make wigs a cultural phenomenon. My mom owned three, each with a slightly different style and length, allowing her to switch up her look with ease. As a young boy, I never thought to question how she looked. My answer was always the same: “You look pretty, Mommy.”

But one hectic week, that innocence got me into trouble. My mother was juggling her usual duties at home while volunteering extra hours at my kindergarten, housed in the basement of our local Presbyterian church. She was coordinating a parents’ gathering, a chance to connect with other moms and dads over punch and cookies. That evening, she donned her best wig—a voluminous, chestnut-brown number—and a vibrant polyester dress she’d picked up from Rich’s department store. We piled into our blue Chevy Malibu and rolled down the road to the church, where the event was already in full swing.

As we mingled, Mrs. Moore, my kindergarten teacher, spotted my mom and gushed, “Mrs. Franks, I don’t know how you do it. Your hair looks fantastic!” I beamed with pride, eager to share in the praise for my mom’s effortless style. Without a second thought, I piped up, loud enough for the whole room to hear, “Mom’s wearing a wig!”

The room fell silent. I didn’t know I’d just spilled a trade secret. To me, it was just a fact, as innocent as saying the sky was blue. But the looks on the adults’ faces told a different story. My mother’s smile tightened, and I could feel the heat of her embarrassment. I’d landed myself squarely in the doghouse, and no amount of four-year-old charm could dig me out.

There was, however, an unexpected silver lining. My blurted truth sparked curiosity among the other parents, and soon, my mom and her friends sold a few more wigs as a result. But that didn’t erase the lesson etched into my young mind: candor—raw, unfiltered honesty—can be a double-edged sword. It’s a trait we’re taught to value, yet without a touch of tact, it can wound as easily as it enlightens.

Candor is like a wild horse: powerful and admirable, but it needs a bridle to keep it from trampling feelings. We live in a world that often demands honesty but recoils when it’s too blunt. Think about the workplace, where a colleague’s “brilliant” idea might be a logistical nightmare. Do you risk derailing their enthusiasm—or your career—by pointing out the flaws? Or consider the delicate dance of personal relationships, where a poorly timed truth can turn a simple question into a minefield. “Honey, does this dress make me look fat?” isn’t just a question about fashion; it’s a test of diplomacy, trust, and love.

Navigating these moments requires finesse, a balance of truth and kindness. It’s about being honest without being brutal, offering feedback that respects the person even as it addresses the issue. For example, instead of saying, “That idea won’t work,” you might say, “I love your creativity—let’s brainstorm how to make it even stronger by addressing X.” Or, to the dress question, a gentle, “You look great, but I think the other one highlights your style even more.”

My wig-blurting moment taught me that honesty, while noble, needs a filter. As adults, we’re not so different from that four-year-old version of me—eager to speak our truth but still learning when to hold back. The next time you’re faced with a question that demands candor, take a breath. Weigh the moment. Find the words that inform without injuring, that build up rather than tear down. With a little polish, you can stay true to yourself—and stay out of the doghouse.

 It’s hot, I’m hot, you hot?

/in /by

I pedaled as hard as I could up the hill. I was headed to my best
friends house hoping to get a group together to head to the pool.
I wasn’t much of a swimmer but in the heat of the summer, spending
some time there on a hot day broke up the heat.
As long as you were in the water you were cool. The only thing that
was hot was the cement when you got out and walked in your bare feet.
It made a huge difference on those long summer days. We were too far
to bike to the pool, so we had to convince an adult to drive and drop
us off or go swimming themselves.
Usually, we could find someone to take; it was harder to get a ride
back. No one wanted to haul wet kids in their cars. Especially, if
the car they drove had cloth seats in it. Sometimes you got lucky and
found someone with vinyl seats or simply a pickup truck, so we could
all just climb in and sit in the bed. There were none of those pesky
rules about car seats and such back then.
As I mentioned, I wasn’t much on swimming but I had learned all the
basic strokes and enjoyed it to keep cool. It took me a few summers
to work up to it but eventually I got brave enough to climb the high
dive and go in. The short dive was never a problem. Heights were not
my thing. The diving board with water under it wasn’t that scary, I
think I was more afraid of doing a belly flop at that distance. It
not only hurt pretty badly. I know from experience. But you would get
a pretty good teasing from everyone.
I had enough of that without doing anything!
Anyway, the pool was a respite from long days out in the heat riding
the roads on my bike, playing hard in someone’s yard, or playing
board games while sitting in someone’s floor. Of course, no one had
air conditioning, so being outside after a certain time of the day
was actually better than being inside. You found a shady spot and
hoped for a breeze if you got too hot.
We often played games in the woods. The tree cover generally brought
the heat down by about 10 degrees or more. So, we built a lot of
forts and had a lot of imaginary battles.
About 3:30 in the afternoon, we would hear the sounds of music coming
from the ice cream truck, and if we managed to save up enough we
would line up for some frozen treat that made the day. They didn’t
last long. It lasted just enough time without melting to make it
worthwhile. The frozen cone dipped in chocolate with nuts was a
favorite or sometimes the push up. orange sherbet.
If we did get to go home at some point, we would run for the kitchen
open the refrigerator and stand there letting the cool air flow
around us. Of course, that always got the admonishment of my mother
if she caught me. But it was worth it some of the time.
The heat reminds of those days. Maybe not fondly, but I look back
with a since of nostalgia that does cause me to long a bit for those
times again.
I have however figured out how to reduce those urges and it seems to
work. I turn off my air conditioning for a couple of hours and go
open the refrigerator door and look longingly inside feeling the cool
air pour out around me.
It’s not quite the same without my mother’s raised voice coming
from the other room, but it does ease the nostalgia just a bit.