Been Thinkin’ About…Fathers

Been Thinkin’ About…Fathers

 

By John W. Vander Velden                          

 

It would seem suitable that June would be a time to think about fathers.  With the holiday approaching my mind has moved in that direction lately.  For most of us Father’s day takes our thoughts to our own fathers…and that’s good.  It is good to think outside of ourselves.  It is good to remember our dads.  Those of us that are fortunate to have had fathers worth remembering in any case.  I was.  But growing up television programs were filled with fathers.  Father Knows Best, Make Room for Daddy, and hundreds of other programs that showed families headed by strong good nearly perfect men. Though there is no “reality” on television…never was…these “characters” did often revel noble attributes.  But they could never be a true measuring stick for men facing the real challenges of real life.  I hope none of us measured our dads against these actors moving about in perfectly manufactured scenes. 

But lately my mind has focused on another father…me.  I wonder, constantly, how do I measure up?  Being a father was always part of my life’s plan.  I’m big on plans…too big.  As I look back I understand that I stepped into the role even before my son arrived.  Now twenty-two years later, I’m still at the job.  There’s no retirement plan folks.  Yet I wonder.  How did I measure up?  For so many years, work’s obligations stole moments my son rightly deserved.  Was I there when I needed to be?  Did I have enough energy to give?  Was I always fair?  Life in our home was different.  I believe each home is a unique environment.  But did I give enough, not things but of myself?

People see my son and tell me I’ve been a good father, as if I could have forced him to become the fine young person he has become.  I remind them that the jury’s still out on that.  I’m not certain that even Nick will have the platform to judge my success, and his character can not be the measure of my inputs alone.  I had a lot of help.  His father might be responsible for his height but perhaps little else.  You see everything about “fathering” was new to me.  Each challenge a first time thing.  It was kinda’ like traveling an “unknown country” with so many events coming and me feeling so unprepared and wondering if I handled them best. 

As I consider Father’s Day and my actions as a father, perhaps it would be wisest to dwell less on what I consider successes and failures, and just trust my heart and continue on…continuing on.  To understand that I am flawed and it is unreasonable to expect perfection in all of my actions.  To trust that love will guide when I stumble along wondering what is best.  To just be…and not second-guess…the best father I can be at the moment…each moment…every moment…and accept that I will be good enough.

So another Father’s Day approaches and I think about my father and the grandfathers I never knew and all those male ancestors to the beginning of time.  I think about effort and sacrifice.  I know that they too had moments of self-doubt.  But I am grateful…so very grateful for them all.  I think about my son.  I wonder if one day he too will make the conscious choice to join the ranks of fatherhood.  Yes, on Sunday, gifts will be exchanged and words spoken and that’s nice too…but…I’ve been thinking about fathers and what being a father really means….

 

(596 Words)    6-10-2016

 

In Harness

In Harness                                 

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Times come, when we consider the bond between ourselves and those that raised us.  The mechanisms between a child and its parents are as complex as the people themselves.  For many, the home and those that fill it, make up the bulk of the very young’s universe.  Early memories have long lasting effects.  So the fortunate have a deep connection – daughter and son – with father and mother.  A connection begun even before birth.

A big strong man, my father.  My earliest memories of a hardworking, present man.  The family farm of the fifties required long hours of labor, whether in field or barn, but always nearby.  Dad was always available.  That shaped the beginning of the link that built between us.  As I grew I was expected to contribute – chores were assigned that I often considered exceeded my capabilities -- certainly exceeded my desire.  To get up early and help with the milking was not my wish in those first days.  The sweeping of the barn on a warm summer’s morning among my last desires.  I remember walking across the hayfield and “rolling” the bales so they could dry evenly.  And later when I drove the Allis-Chalmers WD pulling the wagon slowly across the land, as we picked up those bales my father skillfully stacked. 

The tasks I was given fit me – though I had doubted it at the time.  Work added as I grew older, stronger.  But our lives were not only labor.  Times, when the freedom and the whole farm was at our feet to wander and explore.  Times when our family would go to the lake or dad took us fishing.  He understood that life was more than work.

 I had not forgotten all these things when I began farming as well.  Perhaps the hardest years were the first when the Vander Veldens bought their own land.  Things went very badly those early years of the seventies.  Years that demanded more than hard work – it required sacrifice.  As we poured our sweat and blood into a dream that seemed stillborn.  Time and again we came to the brink of losing it all.  But the long hours and the doing without, in the end, breathed life into that dream.  The backward steps, at last, no longer exceeded our forward motion.  The farm did more than endure – it prospered.

A lifetime lived and time shared – what does it all mean?  Those that have not had these same experiences might find it hard to understand.  To say that my parents were, and are, important to me, should not seem so unusual.  But there is a difference – the sheer volume of time shared.  For dad and I were a team.  Not like a ball team, a group moving toward a goal.  But like a pair of draft animals – bound together, pulling a common burden.  For thirty-five years we were “in harness” – through blistering summers and subzero winters – spring plantings and difficult muddy harvests.  Shoulder to shoulder each complimenting the other – strength against weakness – confidence against fear – sweat spent on long days -- always straining together toward the objective.

Few can understand.  How many willingly pick up the yoke, to be bound to another, year after year?  Surly changes in society have diminished the need – it certainly has reduced the desire.  But this farmer does not regret the harness – rather like all those that have carried the common yoke, I miss, deeply, the empty space, for the harness is now borne alone…

(580 Words)                5-10-2014

Dad's Tractor

Dad’s Tractor                         

By John W. Vander Velden

 

It seems too often a man is measured by his tools.  And among a farmer’s tools are those roaring wheeled monsters called tractors.

Dad raised in Europe within a farm family, where all the work demanded a strong back and willing hands.  There was no mechanization of vegetable farming in Holland at the time.  Turning every inch of soil over by shovel was only the beginning of a season’s toil.

The work built a family of strong men, but also wore at their body’s abilities.  I do not know dad’s first thought about the thundering machines that drew the plows through acre after acre.  He showed me the goggles he had worn, which failed to protect his eyes from the dust raised by the tracks of the Cletrack Crawler he drove to plow Scholl’s muck land in the late 40’s.

Things changed in 1951 when dad became his own man.  No longer a laborer, he farmed what was called 50/50.  Putting up half the cash, all the equipment, and most of the labor on William Coughenour’s dairy farm.  The job required tractors.

Over his career my father owned many tractors, tractors of every color.  Machines built by John Deere, Minneapolis Moline, Oliver and Cockshut.  But the first new tractor he ever purchased was an Allis-Chalmers Model C.  That C was among the tractors of my earliest memories. 

Those with any familiarity with the equipment manufactured by Allis-Chalmers know that the C was a small tractor.  Most that have survived now mow people’s yards.  But in the early 50’s they found themselves at work on many farms.  However the work demanded more than the willing tractor could handle.  The wagons it was meant to pull grew larger becoming too heavy and that tractor’s small tires were unable to find traction sufficient.  Dad changed the Chalmers’ clutch beneath a tree in our yard.  Perhaps that was the sign that convinced him that a change was needed, for that little orange tractor vanished, replaced by an old Oliver 77.

But I remember that C, and Dad reminding us that it had been his first new tractor.  It had a bench seat wide enough for me to sit at dad’s side as he drove it home after milking.  Once he allowed me to take the wheel.  How fortunate his strong hands remained near to correct my poor attempt as the Chalmers meandered down the road on that morning so long ago.

There is much we can learn from that Allis-Chalmers tractor and more from the man who first purchased it for his farm.  For success demands dogged determination.  But though that little C never gave up the fight – sometimes the fight is on its own not enough.  And my father knew that life is a state of flux – the world continually changing.  It is important to know when to continue as we have and when a new tact is needed.  Perhaps that is the hardest lesson we have to learn.  A lesson taught by dad’s first new tractor.

(504 Words) 

 

He Wanted to be Like His Father...

 

He Wanted to be Like His Father…                      November 14, 2010    

By John W. Vander Velden

 

He wanted to be like his father…he was ten…was that so unusual.  His father was the strongest man he knew.  He had seen the man throw bales high above his head on a moving wagon.  He had seen him move rocks…no…boulders that dared to interfere with the tilling of the soil.  His father was tall…taller than most other men…he hoped he too would be tall…be strong…be brave.  How brave his father was…certainly there was nothing that man feared.  When the nights were especially dark…when the wind howled…when noises…creepy…fearful noises came out of the night.  His father strode out to meet whatever lurked in the darkness, often without even the smallest of light in hand.  He climbed ladders up the side of silos.  He had seen him…with his own eyes he had seen him…climb up a silo…then without any thought throw his leg over the very staves and scoot himself along the edge around the tippy-top…a rope in one hand and a pulley in the other.  He had seen it…that and a thousand other things his father had done without fear.  His father was respected…whether it was at church or the elevator…whether it was at the hardware or an auction…other men greeted him with awe and showed him honor…they called him Mr.. His father was kind…he was gentle.  His voice could be soft…warm.  He had seen the man hold his baby sister…he had seen the eyes so…so soft.  He had seen it most often in the way the great man…the big man…treated his mother…how he listened…how he looked…how he cared. 

Yes, he wanted to be like his father.  Not that the man was perfect…he knew better.  He had seen the man lose his temper…how dark and terrible those moments had been…but even then the man never struck anyone…never!  He knew there were times his father forgot…or said he had forgotten…and how others felt the pain of being forgotten…even if it were but for an instant… No, the man was not perfect…the big tall broad man…the strong man…the honest respected man…the brave courageous man…was not a perfect man…but the boy wanted to be like his father. 

He loved his mother…It was she that had bathed him when he was too young to do so…she dressed him when buttons refused to slide through those difficult slits on the front of his shirt…surely there was time…a time before he could remember…when she even fed him…just as she now fed his younger brother.  He remembered when he was ill…those nights when the pain would not let him sleep…she was there…always there.  When he was afraid…it was to her arms her ran…she held him…kept him safe.  Her arms were warm…stronger than others might know…yes, she kept him safe.  She was beautiful…no one could convince him otherwise…he knew the truth.  How hard she labored…how tireless she was.  When he needed someone to listen…her ears were always near.  When he fell…she lifted him to his feet…kissed the wound and sent him on his way.  When he received any award…he knew it was her heart he melted.

 

Yes, he loved his mother…but he knew she was not perfect.  There were times…not often but times…when she had ignored him…others were more important…or so it seemed…and he was left out.  There were times she was hard…when nothing he could do would please…when nothing he could say would satisfy.  There were times when she seemed cold…times though rare when the room itself seemed to cool in her presence.  No, the woman was not perfect…tender and kind woman…the smiling…the gentle…the strong woman was not perfect…but the boy so loved his mother. 

Is it wrong…is it wrong that a ten year old boy would feel so.  I say no!  I say absolutely no!!!  It is very right for a child…for any child to admire his father and love his mother!!!  God help parents unworthy…for all tomorrows stand on the foundations of today…and each child will one day…one day much sooner than we might expect…grow up…and as they mature…they will have been shaped...shaped most by those closest…their mother…their father. 

He wanted to be like his father… He loved his mother…  He was indeed blessed!!!   

(704 Words)