There’s no telling how many lives have been saved over the years by people seeing this sign at a railroad track and following directions—or how many people are no longer with us because they didn’t.
Stopping, looking, and listening, however, has no boundaries. It might not be a matter of life or death, but it could make a difference in how you get along in life.
Grandad was considered one of the best farmers in Johnson Township. Those eighty acres and what was on them was his world and he treasured and cared for every bit of it—the land, crops, livestock, buildings, my grandmother, their seven children and himself.
He was, as the saying goes, early to bed and early to rise. The many times I as a kid stayed with them, it was still dark when I heard him get up and prepare himself for the day.
In winter, he’d go to the basement to shake the ashes through the grates before refueling the furnace which would then remove the overnight chill from the two-story house above. In summer, he was likely to go to his workbench and spend a few minutes sharpening a tool or repairing something recently broken.
Either immediately before or after that, however, he always walked out the door on the north side of the house and went as far as the hedge that separated the lawn from the garden. Beyond the garden’s far end were the granary, corn crib, hog barn, big barn, and machinery shed. Also in view was most of the barn lot. To the east were two of his farm’s four large fields plus a tract of timber which he called the “east woods.” To the west and through a grove of catalpa trees was an almost identical scene. The only parts of the farm he couldn’t see were the orchard and chicken houses hidden by the house behind him.
It was in that dark turning gray environment that he stopped, looked, and listened, the prelude to becoming aware of any subtle changes ranging from some new tomato plants needing water to the granary that would soon need a new coat of paint to a distant field of wheat almost ready for harvest.
His last act was to look at the sky, especially the clouds that were always strong indicators of what the weather was going to be that day. What the clouds didn’t tell him, his skin did—heat, cold, and moisture, plus wind speed and direction. With his senses sharpened, he then created his own weather forecast which, not so incidentally, was seldom wrong.
It would’ve been the perfect time for him to pray, and most likely he did. If so, his prayers would’ve been whispered or murmured. That was his time to be alone, to direct his thoughts toward reflecting, renewing, and anticipating.
At most, that visual and sensual sweep plus his weather analysis took no more than a couple of minutes. That done, he walked back into the house where my grandmother was making breakfast—nourishment to launch them both into still another day of life on the farm.
Their behavior was as old as mankind. The sheep herders in biblical times did it, so did explorers of old, ancients in South America, American Indians, early settlers. Now, it’s time for us to be doing it, or if we already are, doing more of it to help make up for losses linked with the growing complexity of our lives in this, the Twenty-First Century.
Indeed, since those long gone days, times have dramatically changed on America’s farms and ranches. That applies not only to methodology, but also to the general environment that now hums with high tech machines and the latest scientific findings for producing more food for less.
Despite that, and armed with more than casual evidence, I’ve often said there’s one time during the day when every farmer and rancher is exactly the same, regardless of their age, farm size, income, net worth, or what food they produce. That time is when they walk out the back door at daybreak, scan the sky, then thank God for being where they are, grateful to be part of the mission of feeding America’s millions.
That, however, isn’t an exclusive. No matter where you are—condo balcony, open apartment window, urban back yard, in a forest, or anywhere else, take a minute before the sun comes up to stop, look, and listen. Acknowledge who you are, where you are, and what you are about to do.
While you’re at it, look upward toward the stars or the moon low in the sky and mix what you see with some heavenly thoughts.
My Grandad would be proud of you.
