The weather finally turned cold this week. Yesterday, we got our first substantial snowfall, and today the windchill temps are well below zero. Winter has very much arrived. Of course, that also means the tractor isn’t working. Ask any farmer or rancher, and they’ll tell you the same tale: “If it’s already bad, it’ll likely get worse.”
It’s a similar concept to “When it rains it pours,” except in a drought-prone region like ours, most grass farmers would rather it pour than sprinkle, so that saying doesn’t mean the same thing to us.
Suffice it to say, when bad weather hits, it often means one or more farm or ranch implements you rely on to feed or water your stock will break down right in the middle of the storm — or whenever it is least convenient. Therefore, we considered it a stroke of luck that our tractor broke down well before the weather turned. Not far enough in advance to have it repaired before the snow started to fall, mind you, but at least we had time to plan ahead, knowing the tractor would be out of commission for a while.
Consequently, in conjunction with the onset of winter, my husband and I have seen our chore time more than double. He gets to deliver hay to the herd using an ancient skid steer with no heater or windshield, and I get to haul hay one forkful at a time to the flock across a pretty sizable expanse of deeply drifted snow. I definitely have it better than him. At least I stay toasty warm hefting my hay; puttering slowly across the pasture while the wind screeches around him means he gets colder and colder the longer he works.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how our lives are made up of thousands of forgettable moments. Sure there are epic peaks and valleys, but the vast majority of our time on earth is not epic. Most of it is spent doing things like forking hay or whatever other mundane but essential chore is required. This seems to be especially true of our work lives. Even the most glamorous jobs are full of unglamorous parts, like when I was producing a television show and spent way more time replying to scheduling emails than I spent filming the interesting things the show was about.
Recently, our small community lost a beloved member. An employee at the local electric cooperative, Jason, showed up when one of your appliances broke down. Repairing appliances might not seem like a high-stakes job, but I’ll tell you, if you live a couple hundred miles from a big box store and your refrigerator suddenly starts clanking, when someone like Jason shows up at your door you are reminded not all heroes wear capes.
Jason’s obituary referenced his work ethic: “Those who knew Jason knew he rarely said no to someone in need of assistance … He felt this level of service was his duty to his community.” And, boy, it was true. I still have his cellphone number saved in my phone from the time he repaired our dishwasher and told me to text him if it stopped working over the weekend.
Jason’s obituary went on to say, “He truly left a legacy to be emulated,” and, again, I have to agree. To treat your labor as a gift to your community is indeed a legacy to be emulated. It’s easy to think of work as simply a means to an end. Sure, we work to collect a paycheck, so we can afford food and shelter, but isn’t all labor also an act of service, whether it’s for livestock, the soil or a neighbor whose dishwasher is in distress? And how would your life change if you thought of your labor that way?
Jason enjoyed his time away from work, and that’s part of his legacy, too. He embraced an assortment of leisure activities, and that was another act of service to his community — a reminder that the richness of life is in giving AND receiving.
