Human Decency -Still Alive and Well
Call it a quirk or a gift - I’ve always been curious and more than willing to learn about the different worlds that strangers live in. Each person has a unique story - and those stories fascinate me. As I unravel tiny bits of what makes a person tick, I’m hopefully slower to judge and more likely to get a glimpse of the common threads that run just beneath the surface. Connecting in any way with that humanity, gives me hope.
As I pedaled along, I noticed that in every direction, miles of corn and soy bean fields met the dense gray sky . A rare house, usually with an adjoining barn, broke up the landscape as did the occasional car, or rare tractor in a field. Up ahead, however, was an unusual sight. A Hagie Sprayer was pulling away from a large tank truck, its huge tires carrying it above and between the rows of half-grown corn stalks.
Checking my rearview mirror, I started to pass the parked truck when I noticed the wave of an arm up above. I stopped, said hi, and then a fit-looking guy, maybe sixty, climbed down from the cab. With an outstretched hand and an unusual air of confidence, he introduced himself and I followed suit. I started off by commenting to Dave that “in Upstate New York where I came from, sizable farms are a hundred acres. I’m still not used to seeing thousand-acre farms.”
Acknowledging that I understood tractors have onboard GPS assistance, I asked a question I’ve been wondering about for years. “With farms this large, how do farmers know exactly where they sprayed an hour ago?”
Dave explained that the computer first generated a detailed image of each of his farm fields and then it shades in the specific swath as his sprayer cruises along. I was awe struck at such slick technology.
He shared the many different aspects of spraying the nitrogen solution. One thing he stressed early on, was the importance of keeping the nitrogen spray a safe distance from the local water table. They consider the moisture of the soil itself, the height of the corn plant, and when the next rain is expected. In this case, he lamented that the soil was particularly dry and that there was no rain in sight.
He was an enthused teacher and I was eager to learn as much as I could about what goes into my “tank,” or the tiny tank of my Prius.
And then Dave asked - “So what brought you to Wisconsin?”
I answered that our son had moved here for work, more than a decade ago, and that our daughter had joined him shortly thereafter. Over the next few years she and her then-husband contributed two grandkids to the mix - a now seven-year-old daughter, and a nine year-old son, who is on the non-verbal end of the Autism Spectrum.
Then I explained that the critical factor which led to our moving west was that my daughter had struggled for years to keep her position as a school psychologist. It was impossible for her to do her best and meet the required work loads, when she kept getting pulled from her job to address almost daily problems with her son.
We moved here in hopes that we might lighten her burden. Dave told me that he had friends with kids on the spectrum and had seen that their lives were far from easy.
While we were talking about other nearby roads and cycling, I received a couple different texts from my daughter. She explained that our grandson may not be able to continue attending the summer program for kids with disabilities, after all. The staff expressed serious concerns about his repeated and almost successful attempts to run off, in spite of locked doors and multiple aids on the lookout.
I apologized for being so rude as I looked down at my phone, but then filled him in on the latest challenge that my daughter and her son were facing. His response was subdued, but so telling. . . “and here I was worried about whether my fields would get enough rain in time.”
We both had work to do and had already said our goodbyes when it occurred to me - this would be a story my readers might want me to share. I went back toward his truck, gave my elevator speech about “Us AND Them,” and then voiced my observation that - “ we’ve been talking for about a half an hour and I have no idea what your politics are - and that’s just fine.”
He very aptly responded - “ Oh, I don’t mind telling you, I’m an American.”
No aspersions on the farmer but your tale reminded me of a recent David French NYT post on MAGA folk: DeSantis is flailing because he only gets the anger, not the “joy” of being in the tribe of Trump. Those folks are having a blast, and only hate a faceless “they”, not the nice guy on a bicycle with an autistic grandson. The damage they’re doing is real but mostly unconscious. What a mess!
This was the first thing I read this morning, what a great way to start my day! Thank you and the farmer for sharing your encounter. Yes, we do have a lot in common with everyone and we learn that when we leave politics out of the conversation, as you so beautifully illustrated this morning. Hope your daughter finds a way to improve whats going on with her son - I know she will.