I met a man recently, who had a little
ranch set-up that seemed ideal to me. He had a new home, custom-made
with special stones from a certain river bed, beams from a special
kind of wood, an interior design suited to every need and decor that
looked like it came out of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine.
There was also a horse barn, with horses, nice fences, a great little
garden spot, a volley ball pit, a pool table, basketball court, shop,
play area, covered porch, barbeque pit, a grand piano and the list
goes on. Everything seemed perfect and made-to-order, new and
luxurious. I have to admit, I was envious.
As I began to imagine how it would
feel to be able to own such a wonderful and seemingly perfect place,
I realized that there was something wrong, or maybe something
missing. As I was talking to the man who owned this little ranch, I
asked him about his horses. He said that even though he cannot ride
anymore, he keeps the horses around for his grandkids. I then asked
about the beautiful grand piano and discovered that it was an
electric, player piano. Neither of them knew how to play, but they
didn't have to. It could play itself. So, I began to get the
picture. These well-meaning grandparents have provided a sort of
recreational second home for their children and grandchildren. A
place where they can ride horse, play pool, shoot baskets, play
volleyball, listen to a grand piano, watch movies or eat, all in the
lap of luxury. Nice. So why was I feeling like something was
missing?
I remember as a young child, going to
visit my grandparents. They had a couple of hundred acres of
dry-farm in North Dakota. Their farmland was rocky and unforgiving.
Out here, in irrigation country, wheat farmers can plan on dozens of
bushels per acre, but back there, Grandpa was lucky to get twenty.
They made their meager living on their farm and fed themselves with
the sweat of their own backs. They milked a cow, raised chickens,
butchered their own meat, raised their own vegetables, took their
wheat to town twice a year to be milled and stored and they ate their
own flour. When we visited them, we played in the trees, in the
pasture or on the old propane tank. We were not allowed to use the
bathroom in the house when we were playing outside, but we always
used the outhouse. Actually, we preferred the outhouse and
considered it a special privilege, but I suppose that's kids for you.
And, there was one small rope swing, with a wooden seat which
Grandpa had made for his own children.
This wonderful, working farm was a
natural delight to me and my brothers and sisters. We didn't feel
like Grandma and Grandpa were there to 'entertain' us or to provide
some sort of diversion for us. We just loved being in the midst of
useful things and being a part of it all. Grandpa would often take
us with him to do little jobs, like hauling water from the nearby
spring or helping pick rocks in the field, and sometimes Grandma
would take us with her to bring lunch out to Grandpa in the field.
One of the most precious memories I hold in my mind was one day when
Grandpa took me by the hand and led me to the barn. He put his finger
to his lips to tell me to be quiet as we walked in. As we peeked up
over the horse's feed box, I saw, to my great delight and surprise, a
mama kitty with her little kittens all gathered around her. What
makes this so special to me is the feeling of almost reverence that I
felt from Grandpa at the time. He loved his animals, every one. He
treated those kittens like they were the most amazing miracle in the
universe at that moment. So it felt that way to me too.
I guess that's what I felt was missing
from the “ideal” setup I visited recently. The wonder and
mystery of life; the living, breathing, working, useful part of life
that means something. I remember sitting by my Grandpa while he
played his old piano and sang: “Tra, la, la....tra, la, la. I
didn't care that it was a hundred-year-old piano or that he didn't
seem to know the words to the song. I was listening to the music of
life and it sounded great to me. Today, if I could be a child again
and choose which house to visit, I certainly know which one it would
be.
