November 26: November Tale

The farmer walks around his field in muck boots
So slowly, his lumbering gait betrays him deep in thought.
He has worked the land and it has worked him
For generations, as far back as he can recall.
Even his childhood memories are built upon
Thanksgiving walks around these same fields with his Dad
Silent as monks, the two of them.
He is remembering his wife, now gone ten years
In the blink of an eye that to this day
He recalls like a punch in the stomach,
How it made him weak in the knees,
How even today, he cannot conceive of
Mornings without her.
He recalls the birth of each sheep and cow and horse
With as much clarity as every one of his children.
The panic and exhilaration that eventually gives way
To the boredom and fear that is raising a family.
He learned the hard work of farming,
Not believing there was any better way to make a living.
The thought of simpler ways of doing things,
Of not having to get up so early,
To always reek of manure and earth,
Of worrying about money and doing
The precarious dance of getting
Food on the table, and the kids dressed
In respectable clothing and sent to school.

He feels the mud give way beneath his feet –
It is a cool November, and this Thanksgiving
Morning is as raw as his heart as he
Remembers, he observes the sadness
Of his farm just before the winter comes –
He was used to cycles, so he understands
How it is that his farm looks so
Lackluster to him – it happens every year.

He turns down roads scarred by large tractor
Tires that leave criss-cross treads
Resembling spider webs deep in the mud.

Down wind, he can smell the turkey
Already cleaned and stuffed and cooking.
There would be the turnips to boil and mash,
Potatoes to clean, string beans to slice.
There will be pies to warm over eventual sliding
Mounds of ice cream later – the pungent odor
Of cooking fruit would tease him all day.
There would be the alchemy that coaxes the
Smooth comfort flavors of gravey from turkey fat
Gravy that he will pour liberally over
All the other side dishes as well as the meat.
It is his wife’s recipe and he smiles
Remembering that fact. The scent like loving arms will
Overpower everyone in the kitchen in
Just a few hours, when his kids and he
Will sit around his long marked up
Table just to say thanks.

He is tired, but his body is made of the clay of earth.
It all from the deepest parts of him - the loss and pain,
The love he knew and his kinship to death,
The hurt and the hope for all his children.

It is the greatest thing a man can do
To be something solid, like rock, something
That life can stand on, make claim and go forward.