There is hardly a holiday that fits into a farmer’s or rancher’s schedule better than that of our nation’s Independence Day.
It could seriously disrupt his schedule if there is some kind of family or neighborhood roundup during the day—so if the person running the smoker and concocting and sampling the baked beans is the farmer or rancher, we need only make sure he washes the morning chores off of his hands before he begins. We don’t need any extra croutons or protein sources in whatever might land on our plates later in the day.
My guys usually spend Independence Day in balers, hay rakes and swathers—but if you carry our last name, that list of “to-do’s” looks like it’s written on a roll of toilet paper—it just goes on and on. Even after 40-plus years of ‘getting it done’ on the farm.
Still, when a farmer or rancher recognizes that the July sky coloring has turned to that all-too-familiar shade of “shin bruise,” he still has a list to accomplish before he skids the work day to a stop. He may finally halt the hay craze, do the chores, wipe the sweat from his brow, change the oil on his cap and only then–finally break away from his daily exertion.
He’ll scrounge up a burger or pork loin delight and a hop-based (or even a corn-based) beverage after all of that, then go in pursuit of the excitement.
What more could a farmer/rancher ask for than excitement that doesn’t start until he can?
Many a farmer’s/rancher’s wife has served supper at dark-thirty, but hardly ever with the anticipation of a sky light show that compares to a billion-count box of crayons on steroids.
Whenever I gaze into the heavens on the Fourth of July—with all of its eye-popping splendor, glorious color, and resounding and echoing excitement—I can’t help but think that people are a lot like the fireworks I’m watching.
There are a lot of people who don’t come to life until after dark—but the life they bring to the party is usually pretty colorful—and sometimes a little loud.
Some people are like the fireworks with the loud boom—everyone knows when they arrive and where they are … maybe by voices, or perhaps from the fact that they consumed some of those baked beans we talked about earlier.
Some fireworks have a quiet pop—like those people who make us think we’re going to hear some prestigious piece of philosophy from them, only to be disillusioned when we discover they get their wisdom from a Pez® dispenser or the common fortune cookie.
Some people are like single-color fireworks—putting all their eggs into one basket. Others have many colors—and when there are many colors, the opportunity to complement each other because of our differences becomes obvious.
Some fireworks dance around in the sky and some stay in one main place—just as some people travel in and out of our lives, while others—like our nation’s farmers and ranchers–settle in and plant deep roots.
Most fireworks leave a smoke path in its wake, just like people who leave their marks on our hearts after they have left us. And similarly, some people are like sparklers—they burn brightly and create great joy, but burn out too soon.
There are fireworks that crackle steadily as they display their glory, and those that scream in the nighttime sky—like (respectively) people who can make their firm point without raising their voices, and those whose voices tend to block out others’ and override common sense.
When I hear the muffled “ffffoom” of a firework that is headed up into the heavens, I suspect something bigger is coming. Once again, we can maybe revisit those baked beans. Something bigger is always coming after that dining experience. But regardless—
Watching fireworks is like observing a melting pot of all of mankind. And it’s great.
But sometimes … I wish that melting pot was just full of cheese.
(Karen Schwaller writes from her grain and livestock farm near Milford, Iowa. She can be reached at [email protected])