burnt
Well-known member
This was my tribute to Uncle Harold at his funeral today.
Original Design
Sowing Clover
There was much more than just the worn out body of a 90 year old man that lay in the coffin in front of me. And the stillness of the now-cold flesh could not begin to erase the vitality that still poured from the living years of my Uncle Harold.
All his life a very hard worker and careful eater, he was a smallish man, but in physical size only. Indeed, although he never carried a spare ounce of flesh, he was not sparse with the attention he gave to others - family, neighbours, and the downtrodden. In that way as well as many others, he was a giant of a man whose hearty laughter and slap on the back put the fun into many a family gathering. Oh yes, he loved to laugh and joke with whomever he met, whether on his farm or in the retirement home where he lived out his final years.
Migrating north across the American border after finding his true love in my Dad's sister, Edith, he was a transplant from New York State onto the family farm where Dad was born near Zurich, ON. That 100 acre piece of mixed dirt - ranging from tough clay on one end of its 200 rod length to sand at the other - flourished under his gifted hands. And it yielded a livelihood that not only supported his family, but gradually gave him enough extra to put away that he could help countless others who needed a lift.
Many, many others, because although very careful with his earnings, he was also very charitable. Although very demanding of his help at times, he was known to willingly help others who were in need. Wanting to learn a bit of his approach to addressing the needs around us, in our last visit a couple of weeks ago I asked him how one knows when it's time to help someone else. His voice was already weak, but his words were strong - "When it's too late" he quipped and broke into his customary laugh that spanned a lifetime of mirth and wisdom. Would that mean sooner, rather than later?
He took care of the little things and those little things added up to make a big difference. His simple lineup of farm equipment shone under his care. And the grease gun's regular use and a dripping oil can made for a short row of wrenches on his workbench. Details were important to Uncle Harold, to the very end.
Like a visit we had last summer when he decried the "empty juice bottles and Tim Hortons coffee cups in that garbage container" at the front door of Nithview Senior's Village. "Do you know how many dollars that takes?" he queried. I just hung my head. "You add that all up every day and at the end of a year it's a lot of money", he said. And it reinforced the knowledge that his success came not only from his hard work that saw straight furrows turned into milk and meat, but also from knowing the true cost of a $1.60 "medium black coffee, please".
His modest dairy barn with its two rows of fifteen or twenty cows on each side always smelled better than any barn I'd ever been in. That was because the few pounds of yellow sweet clover seeded into his hay mixture yielded a ton of pungent aroma year round. "Some years it would get really tall" he said, motioning with his hand, "and made a lot of hay. The cows really liked a bit of clover in their hay, Suuure, they like clover". So much reward returned on a small investment - that was his way.
But "his way" was never about acquiring more for his own benefit. Uncle Harold saw no need in buying the farm next door if it came up for sale. He was a man who lived with the knowledge that life here is transient and that his best investments were not in more farms or more cows, but in seeding a crop of generosity for the future even though he might not see the yield in this lifetime. What a concept, taking the little that we have been given and multiplying it by giving it away…Who in this world, then, are the truly wealthy, and who are the perennially bankrupt?
Later today I proudly will help carry his casket to its final earthly resting place. I will spend a few extra minutes polishing my shoes, yet even so knowing that the shine will never match the one that Uncle Harold could buff into his spotless, brown leather Sunday shoes. But I will try because his memory deserves the best efforts of those he left behind. Rest well, Uncle Harold, and know that the clover you sowed here still sweetens the air.
JES/01/02/2014.
Original Design
Sowing Clover
There was much more than just the worn out body of a 90 year old man that lay in the coffin in front of me. And the stillness of the now-cold flesh could not begin to erase the vitality that still poured from the living years of my Uncle Harold.
All his life a very hard worker and careful eater, he was a smallish man, but in physical size only. Indeed, although he never carried a spare ounce of flesh, he was not sparse with the attention he gave to others - family, neighbours, and the downtrodden. In that way as well as many others, he was a giant of a man whose hearty laughter and slap on the back put the fun into many a family gathering. Oh yes, he loved to laugh and joke with whomever he met, whether on his farm or in the retirement home where he lived out his final years.
Migrating north across the American border after finding his true love in my Dad's sister, Edith, he was a transplant from New York State onto the family farm where Dad was born near Zurich, ON. That 100 acre piece of mixed dirt - ranging from tough clay on one end of its 200 rod length to sand at the other - flourished under his gifted hands. And it yielded a livelihood that not only supported his family, but gradually gave him enough extra to put away that he could help countless others who needed a lift.
Many, many others, because although very careful with his earnings, he was also very charitable. Although very demanding of his help at times, he was known to willingly help others who were in need. Wanting to learn a bit of his approach to addressing the needs around us, in our last visit a couple of weeks ago I asked him how one knows when it's time to help someone else. His voice was already weak, but his words were strong - "When it's too late" he quipped and broke into his customary laugh that spanned a lifetime of mirth and wisdom. Would that mean sooner, rather than later?
He took care of the little things and those little things added up to make a big difference. His simple lineup of farm equipment shone under his care. And the grease gun's regular use and a dripping oil can made for a short row of wrenches on his workbench. Details were important to Uncle Harold, to the very end.
Like a visit we had last summer when he decried the "empty juice bottles and Tim Hortons coffee cups in that garbage container" at the front door of Nithview Senior's Village. "Do you know how many dollars that takes?" he queried. I just hung my head. "You add that all up every day and at the end of a year it's a lot of money", he said. And it reinforced the knowledge that his success came not only from his hard work that saw straight furrows turned into milk and meat, but also from knowing the true cost of a $1.60 "medium black coffee, please".
His modest dairy barn with its two rows of fifteen or twenty cows on each side always smelled better than any barn I'd ever been in. That was because the few pounds of yellow sweet clover seeded into his hay mixture yielded a ton of pungent aroma year round. "Some years it would get really tall" he said, motioning with his hand, "and made a lot of hay. The cows really liked a bit of clover in their hay, Suuure, they like clover". So much reward returned on a small investment - that was his way.
But "his way" was never about acquiring more for his own benefit. Uncle Harold saw no need in buying the farm next door if it came up for sale. He was a man who lived with the knowledge that life here is transient and that his best investments were not in more farms or more cows, but in seeding a crop of generosity for the future even though he might not see the yield in this lifetime. What a concept, taking the little that we have been given and multiplying it by giving it away…Who in this world, then, are the truly wealthy, and who are the perennially bankrupt?
Later today I proudly will help carry his casket to its final earthly resting place. I will spend a few extra minutes polishing my shoes, yet even so knowing that the shine will never match the one that Uncle Harold could buff into his spotless, brown leather Sunday shoes. But I will try because his memory deserves the best efforts of those he left behind. Rest well, Uncle Harold, and know that the clover you sowed here still sweetens the air.
JES/01/02/2014.
