A Tribute to Dad on Father's Day Weekend

 My father the second-born, only boy of five kids. I would describe my aunts (Dad's sisters) as vivacious–always ready to greet anyone with a hug and a kiss. I remember Grandma Shirley telling stories of family outings when the girls tore into anything of interest as little Ronnie walked around, hands behind his back, studying things. He was also the kid who needed to be coaxed into going back to school on his second day of kindergarten. Needless to say, my dad isn't a social butterfly, and not very inclined to greet people with a hug and a kiss. But I did learn a few things from him.

Lesson #1: Power of Laughter

Some of my early comedic heroes include Bill Murray, John Belushi, Gilda Radner, Dan Akroyd, Chevy Chase, and Ron Ronfeldt. In addition to laughing at the Coneheads, I laughed at my dad. He was uncommonly funny. Dry. A bit twisted. He didn't tell stupid dad jokes like "Three men walk into a bar...the third one ducked." No. He created games like "The Dead Game" and at-home versions of "Name that Tune." I won't explain The Dead Game, as it involves obituaries and a temporary reprieve of decorum. Name that Tune was a bit more innocent–a family tradition beginning shortly after I began piano and learned classics like "Mister Frog is Full of Hops." Dad could almost always name Mr. Frog in one note.

Dad didn't always love attending my activities (Overly-involved parenting wasn't really a thing in the 80's.) It never bothered me. But it was nice when he came to Senior Night when the football team and marching band were being recognized. As the athletic director thanked the parents for all of their support and dedication to the kids, he leaned over to Mom and whispered, "What instrument does Stef play again?" Now, that's just funny.

Lesson #2: Work is Good

I don't know any dad in this part of the world who doesn't try to impart a work ethic into their kids. Dad was no different with his only child–a delicate daughter whose preference was to stay inside and either read or play barbies. I had a lot of standard first jobs: mowing, babysitting, and the pinnacle of all first jobs in Shelby County: walking beans. At first I was excited to be on an exclusive crew of bean walkers and making the high salary of $3/ hour. It only took me about 30 minutes (at most) to tire of the bugs, heat and monster button weeds. But I did it. When I was asked, I did it. One summer, I seemed to be enjoying a reprieve of the fields. Dad took notice of my lazy summer days. One night at supper he mentioned that Forrest Adams was needing bean walkers and I better be ready to go the next morning. My heart sunk to the floor. Being the quick thinker that I was, I replied, "I can't! I have to exercise tomorrow." To be fair, I had just started on a new program. It wasn't a lie. Dad didn't scold me. He chuckled. And rather than feeling resentful, I felt, well, foolish. (I can't imagine if my husband, a true farm kid, would've told his dad he couldn't walk beans because he was starting a new exercise regimen.) It took some time, but eventually I began to understand the value and fruits of working hard. 

Lesson #3: Humility

When my dad was playing football in high school, the coach pulled him aside before a game one night and asked him if it would be okay for the announcer to call out his son's name, instead of Dad's, in the starting lineup. The coach assured him that he would still start and play the whole game. But it would mean an awful lot to the announcer. Who was my dad to argue with that?

One time when I was was in grade school or junior high, I was bragging about how fast I was. (I was super uncoordinated, just fast.) Dad sat and listened. Eventually, he said, "I was pretty fast in school too." Ha! Of course, I didn't believe him. He was an old guy (probably around thirty) who wore work boots and jeans. So, he challenged me. We went out in the yard, he still wearing his boots and jeans. He gave me a head start, which I assured him I didn't need. But lo and behold, he kicked my ass. 

I guess you could say my father is a "character" guy than a man of show. That's why he'd much rather be seen on an antique Indian motorcycle with hints of rust on the gas tanks, as opposed to riding a shiny new Ducati or even a brand new Harley. It's hard not to respect that.

My dad, protecting me from the fish!

The summer after I graduated from the U of Iowa (Bachelor's Degree in hand), I got a job detasseling. I had had a few accomplishments in my life by then, but Dad told me more than once, how proud he was of me for doing that job. It was humbling. It was hard work. But fortunately, I knew how to laugh. All gifts from my father.

Of course, I learned many more things from Dad...things like driving a stick shift. But my favorite lesson of all from him? Love comes in all forms. He might not be a big hugger. But when I stop in for a visit over lunch and Dad shows me his tomatoes or a funny YouTube video, I feel his love for me.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Love ya to pieces. 

Getting Dirty

By guest blogger, Alex Kramer 

A few weeks ago, I had the radical idea that fully submerging my hands in soil would solve all my problems. This stemmed from a romantic daydream of working and living on an olive farm in Italy, listening to records and writing music in my free time. But I don’t live in Italy. I live in Colorado. And despite growing up in a cornfield, I rejected any notion that I might enjoy working with the land. I was too punk for that. Nowadays, I tend to reject the notion that to be one thing you can’t be another. So I took my tattooed, blue-haired, semi-city-fied self out to the farm — Esoterra Culinary, to be exact — and prepared to be schooled. 

It wasn’t my dad’s farm, that’s for sure. Mark, the man that owns the farm, and his young daughter (probably 7 or 8), greeted me with raw fennel to snack on and a tour of all the produce they grow — rows of chicory, raspberries, tomatoes, sunchokes, and so much more just starting to sprout, seeking the spring sun and rain. It was the lay of the land, if you will. Then they put me to work. 

For 3 hours, I hung out pulling bindweed and planting peas in the mountain heat and morning breeze. Amongst plants I can’t remember the names of, I got dirt successfully wedged in every crevice of my hands. Mark’s daughter told us about her future plans to open a raw food restaurant with her friend — she even made us a plate by cutting greens straight out of the ground so we could sample her work (shockingly, delicious; the girl knows what’s what). She showed us her mom’s sundress and told me she would like her hair to be a rainbow. I think it would suit her.

I told you I originally wanted to put myself in this foreign situation to solve all my problems. Those problems include a need for movement, a stressful job/boss, and a long-pushed-off eating disorder. Eating disorders, actually. I have such a complicated, tumultuous relationship with food that’s been exacerbated by anxiety, depression, and life circumstances for years. It’s been festering in the heat of my life. All these things swarming along inside my head have external effects — and food became a battleground. After years of negative thoughts and a fair amount of repression, I didn’t feel like hating myself anymore. I went back to therapy and was honest, am continuing to be honest. I’m volunteering at a culinary farm that’s already begun changing my perception of food. Something happens when you eat vegetables straight out of the ground. There’s a new appreciation knowing exactly what’s keeping my brain thinking and my heart pumping. I understand why the bunnies like it so much.

Everything that I was, that’s been done to me, and that I’ve done to myself is a past-tense. The future is as green and fertile as the pea shoots (hopefully) coming out of the ground. 

The next morning: Sunday. I’m writing this in my pajamas, listening to Muddy Waters and watching it rain by the window. I am sore in places I haven’t felt since soccer but daydreaming of the flowers that will come from the rain. And despite the mosquito bite on my face and the large strip of sunburn on my back, I am already looking forward to next Saturday.

Alex. True Blooded Farm Girl.