Hurt, Dirt, and Hangovers: Part 1 - Hurt and Dirt

It’s funny the specific memories that the human mind can pull out of seemingly nowhere. Not long ago, my mind took me back to grade school. I was riding with my dad to the fire station where he served as a volunteer first responder. I was quietly staring out the window, imagining what kind of pop I would get from the fire department fridge as a reward for helping him with safety checks of the lights on a fire truck. We had just driven past my school when my dad, seeming out of nowhere said “Chris, someday life will knock you down. Someday, you’ll be at a point where you don’t feel like you have anything left and you have to decide to get up, brush the dirt off and start putting one foot in front of the other.” Being confused, I asked him what he meant, and we talked for about 5 minutes. As we pulled into the driveway of the fire station, he stopped talking. I hopped out of the car and followed him into the fire station, my sense of bewilderment mixing with the smell of stale sweat and old smoke coming from the building.

It’s amazing to me the level of detail I can recall of that conversation. It was gray and cloudy after a rainstorm but the air was warm. The brown seats of the GMC Jimmy he was driving. The puddles on the road. The pained expression on his face. The reason he interrupted my daydreaming was that friend of his had a child attempt to commit suicide. It was the first time I remember encountering suicide, however tangentially, and the emotional impact caused his words to sear themselves in my mind. Sometimes you have to decide to get up, brush the dirt off, and put one foot in front of the other.

For the past few mornings, I've found myself starting into my coffee cup and contemplating the last year. As I sit in the early morning darkness, I think about the past few weeks and the testament they have been to my dad’s legacy. My father built a successful choose-and-cut Christmas tree farm through his vision and toil. As far back as I can remember, my family has spent the weekends from Thanksgiving until Christmas working to sell the Christmas Trees that we had spent the previous year cultivating. Last year, Dad was privileged to watch his children and wife run the farm and enjoy one of the best years the farm had ever seen. Even though he was mostly confined to the house due to his cancer, he was incredibly proud of our effort and blown away with the fact that people still showed up without any advertising.

This year after his passing, it’s safe to say that our family has been knocked down pretty hard. It’s taken an unimaginable amount of work to figure out the things that Dad would just know how to do. Everything from the timing of herbicide and pesticide application to training employees how to prune trees felt like it was the first time. We spent close to triple the amount of time it would have taken him because we had to figure so many things out.

As I stared into my coffee cup this morning however, I couldn't help but smile. We had wrapped up the Christmas Tree sales for the year last Sunday. We had met our sales target for the year, cleaned up the sales lot, and closed the gates for another year. Despite losing a husband, father, brother, mentor, and friend, we managed to pick one another up, brushed off the dirt, and put one foot in front of the other.

One of MANY cups of coffee this week