Jan and I enjoy each other's company. That means we appreciate listening to each other as much or more than talking. There is no better time to do both than on a road trip. Listening is such an action word.
Two Saturdays ago we went to an Angus bull sale of our friends, Brent and Teresa. They live and farm near Dexter. Brent built his own sale barn on the farm. We farm Brent's Uncle Ron's farm that his grandfather had bought and started farming in 1940.
After the sale we drove and stayed in to Colby, Kansas, a rural farming community of around 5500 folks in the northwestern part of the state. On Sunday morning we drove south along the Kansas/Colorado state line as we listened to three different church services. We saw more outside corn piles in that dryland country than in Iowa.
After a stay in Gallup, NM, we got up early Monday morning for our last 750 mile drive to Yuma, AZ. We stopped mid morning for a cup of coffee in Sedona, AZ. Sedona is known for red rocks, new age shops, upscale spas, and art galleries. So we were surprised when we walked into the McDonalds lobby to see a homeless man waiting for a coffee refill. Straggly beard. Uncombed hair. Wearing two coats. In a who's who town like this, folks were avoiding him like the plague. After his coffee refill he goes back to his corner booth with his paperback book and walking cane. We go back to the pickup with our to go senior coffees. That's when I asked Jan if I could go back inside and listen to his story.
George grew up on a farm in a small Iowa community where his father was a school superintendent and his mother was a 4th grade teacher. He played high school football for his father. His parents sent him to the University of Iowa where he graduated. He mentioned an acquaintance named ..... I told him I knew a Terry ..... He said Terry was his acquaintance's brother. He worked in Colorado for a short time. When his parents died he went back to Iowa and tried to farm with 2 cylinder John Deeres. It didn't work. His sisters disowned him. He said he had no one so he came to AZ. When asked, he said he slept in an old van. Again when asked, he said his social life were free meals on Mondays and Wednesdays from two different churches. Finally when asked about his relationship with the Lord, he said he had given up on religion because of a bad church experience. We talked about other options. He was 76 years old and been homeless for close to 50 years. Note: I asked ChatGPT to create me an image to protect my new acquaintance. AI (artificial intelligence) listens but is incapable of thinking. I've never seen homeless eating a meal at McDonalds unless it's out of a dumpster or bought for them. I get a text. It's time to go. I listen.
Back to a little farm news this week. With the planters completed, hooked up, and ready, we started on combines. Dean and Jim needed to weld a patch on a hole on top of the clean grain elevator.
Alex was able to finish our custom ammonia jobs between cold sprinkles.
A hog company had six finisher pits they didn't think would make it till after harvest. So I agreed to switch some acres from soybeans to corn to take advantage of the free fertilizer.
Back to last week's story. I had gotten up early Tuesday morning in Yuma to watch the eclipse and the moon turn red. I was outside with the motel manager listening to his story. This was his second job, a night manager. He had a 17 year old son that played and was good in 3 sports. I asked about his relationship with the Lord. He said he didn't do that stuff. He said that his son was hanging around some good kids, attending a little church, and writing about some hope on his social media. Brother Doug called. I excused myself, went and got Jan, and told the motel manager we would be leaving soon. He expressed his condolences. I thanked him and then told him we were ok because we had that hope his son was writing about. We arrived back home 25 hours later, after 1646 miles, 4 gas and coffee stops, and more listening to sermons and podcasts to stay awake.
Have you ever walked in an assisted living home and saw all those sober unsmiling faces in their wheelchairs, and wondered about their listening capabilities? After Mom's funeral on Saturday, I went to Osky Care Center like usual on Sunday morning to greet those I'd become acquainted with while sitting with Mom during breakfast all those years. Staff has told me over half the residents get very few visits. 8 of those sober faces looked me in the eye as I was walking by them and said, "I miss your Mama". Wow! They listen. They observe. And my mother who hadn't walked in 7 years had an impact on them, even in her mild dementia state of mind. Others told me my mother would often tell them that they were won-der-ful.
When we were kids, my Mom would say, "Are you listening to me?" She wasn't asking if we heard her. She was asking if we were obeying her, usually when we weren't. Again, listening is an action word. Obeying. Your mother; your perceptions when you feel a nudge to speak to someone; or that quiet voice that tells you to listen to someone's story. Are you listening today to your family, your friends, your God?
90% of the time I keep a phone by my bed at night in case someone needs a 2AM friend and listening ear about bad news. I don't think about good news coming. A little after 1AM my phone dinged and told me Russell Andrew entered the world. Another of my parents 4th generation legacy. My younger sister Beth will make a fine Grandma.
