Markets are closed today, of course, for the Juneteenth holiday, giving us an opportunity to share a poem I wrote many years ago honoring my dad, but all dads in rural America. This is the bottom-line report.
He could fix a tractor when it wouldn’t run, work past dark till the chores were done.
He’d wipe his sweat and dust from his brow and put up hay in the dusty hay mile.
Here comes his neighbor driving by, always a wave in the wink of an eye.
He doesn’t like salesmen when they stop in the yard, but he listens politely and keeps up his guard.
He cleaned up his shop, which he rarely does, but he always knew where everything was.
He prays each night for good prices and rain, and if he was hurting, we never saw his pain. To stand there beside him still makes me feel glad.
There’s no other one like him. You see, he’s my dad.
Audio Reporting by Mark Oppold for Southeast AgNet.