About Father Land

 by Michael L. Craver

Dad; An Engineer without Patent,

My father harvested in me, the fundamental values of going to work. I cannot remember my father ever asking me for a thing. I don’t know of any time that he asked anyone else for anything. The son of a farmer, and himself; a student of the land.

There’s no coincidence he’s inspecting the city to keep infrastructure in check. He came from strong rural roots. Ones which cities are built upon. A strong family nucleus comprised of ambitious individuals. Strengthening community around them for a stronger chemistry.

When I was not in school, we were on the job site. Evenings spent through the trails in the forest to find, cut, and haul firewood. Stacking newly cut pieces in our shelter built using tree trunks for support posts and leftover tin from a barn project that provided a roof. Bark smeared on my hands and sap in the hair of my arms - my favorite smells. Quite similar to the fresh lumber coming off the table saw, cut and nailed on the misty mornings spent framing a new home.

I’ve been quite blessed to have the chance to see things in so many stages. The humility of knowing a natural space which was cleared. From foundation to occupation, these were people’s structure. Families grew inside each one and together they brightened the community.

Still surprised - each week there's a breakfast with my father and his brothers. Every gathering has a period of recollection working with their friends, how long ago they worked on a home, and inevitably - there are people at the surrounding tables who are still living in those structures many decades later... Houses I was part of as a young man. My father took great pride and detail in every project I've seen him work on; when I drive by those places time stands still.

He coached our sports teams: shaping not only my brother and myself, along with the youth around us. I don’t know an individual from any of those squads that grew into a tragedy. These are not stories of privilege. Hard work was always the main ingredient. Some beautiful things were harvested from those fields.

Once I was at a steakhouse where I ran into some of my father’s old USSSB professional softball teammates. They recognized me during the pandemic. Once I took off my mask, it was clear "that's Dan, right there." Everyone has a story about Dad... These brothers called him the Ric Flair of softball. I’d never heard that nickname in the many years of being on dugout benches; Nor seen it in any of the VHS tapes that document the crazy traveling tournament weekends of the 80's.

Then again- I never knew he was Class President until I saw an article in recent years. My grandmother put together a scrapbook. A newspaper clipping had a photo of him shaking hands with someone in the community doing goodwill.

A man that's beyond humble and might enjoy the letter I am composing here. He might even be proud. Maybe there’s a simple happiness anyone even remembers. The product of his guidance, I appreciate being acknowledged more than you’ll ever know. Make sure if you cross paths with him to tell him, it's good to see him...

 

Because there is a special bond between the speaker and receiver during the recognition of beautiful things. Like the truth behind the patience, skill, and luck of having a bountiful garden. The coming of age from the son of a farmer to an organic chemistry degree. Knowledge compounded by faith and integrity. Building on our past for a smoother future. “Its good to be seen,” he says. Ironic with his beautiful landscapes? Never.

When my parents were divorced it was uneasy. Then I saw my future stepmother. Her beauty leaves you wondering if she’s a trophy wife… and she is. What she does for the community at large, for the Special Education legacy she leaves, and being a member of our family is priceless. She has been a treasure. The son of a farmer who struck gold in his quest to find prosperity. Enjoying his golden years with a precious medal… a gold one.

He told me to stop buying tools. Because everything in his shop would be mine eventually. Perhaps there are no words to describe his visionary approach to life. An adventure that could only be experience existentially.

Until a moment ago, I have remembered Field of Dreams as this movie about a father and son relationship where: if you picked out whom might represent the Catcher John Kinsella- that’s my dad right? He was a catcher through college and did extremely well. Maybe my father watches and sees himself as Ray Kinsella, the son, in the story about knowing his father as a young man.

As I am writing this, something occurred to me. I’d always thought my father could be the farmer Ray or the young father who was a catcher, John. However, a track from the score of the movie started to play while I was writing. Unveiling who my father really is… He’s “Moonlight” Graham. Born on the same day as his uncle Archie. Dr. Graham passes away, a folk legend like that, in 1972- same as my father’s baseball hero Roberto Clemente. Both giving back to the community around them wanting no credit. None of this is a coincidence.

There are unsung heroes in the small circles around us. An ironic description knowing my father sang in the choir and at weddings. I’d hear the echoes of him singing as he played the piano throughout the house. Selfishly wishing there were recordings I could play back.

My father, the man who personifies the songs of Harry Chapin. Another of his idols. Those heroes would be proud of him. Sharing so much of his harvest, collecting food for the hungry throughout the year, and when he begins to speak - there's no more sad stories coming... The longer I've known him - the more I believe, even at the age of 5, he could've pulled that car with his tricycle. Though I've yet to see him proselytize, he is a living testament of service. Spreading cheer; he's got a joke in the tank, but a quick wit that will leave him smiling when even he surprises himself with a new one... The true Nature Boy, Dad.