I’m not what I once was. I once ran a five minute mile, kept my high school record for the 220 and the 440 for 12 years, ran two miles a day, worked 10 – 12 hours in the summer for a cement contractor, took a full load in college and worked nights for 4 hours as a janitor, charged into 148 acres of Idaho real-estate not fully realizing how fast trees could annually grow into my 3 mile easement. My life has become the diary of a workhorse. I may be fundamentally obsessive compulsive as I rarely stop my work. I come home to talk about it and then I even dream about it.
Every day I check the news. The stock market just dipped down under 8,000. Congress seems daily to be focused on how to give away more of my tax money. Iran may have a nuke. Somali pirates, who apparently are equipped with no other job skills for life, are raiding 1,000 foot super tankers with little more than a few fishing boats and the weapons of the day, AK 47s and RPGs. The daily signs and the news constantly remind me that our country is sinking into a deeper recession.
Then there is my work. I have several business interests I try to keep viable. One account declares bankruptcy and then I pick up a new one my competitor doesn’t get. It’s not a loosing proposition. It’s more of a zero sum game right now, but this mode of business requires immense effort. It taxes ones spirit.
Last night I stopped working for about 2 hours. I haven’t seen an eight-hour day for years, but last night, the draft horse stopped pulling the plow and watched a butterfly flutter by and noticed the cooling of the breeze against his sweaty hide. My wife, who does more than any woman should, to keep our house in order, cooked a fabulous low calorie dinner. While slaking down a fine stew with a slice of toasted sour dough, she says to me, “you work so hard and you’re doing such a fine job honey”. I nearly cried in that moment. I don’t like to cry, so I thanked her and tried to focus on the butterfly.
The horse wears blinders you know. He has his head down because it helps him center the load he pulls against. All he really sees most of the time is the hard pan crust of life that he must break through day after day, acre by acre.
The boys are arguing and telling each other to shut up. Hans is engaged in a pantomime of his day. And she says, “you’re doing a fine job honey.” I’m still chewing on a piece of that sour dough and I look around at my house, still there, still the noisy place it always was, but this dear sweat woman is smiling at me from across the table and it is an epiphany of happiness.
Last night, the big horse was put away. He got brushed down, given a bag of oats, a blanket was thrown over his pack, he got a kiss on his nose and put into his stall.
Today is a brand new field.
Milton
