Learning to Be a Farmer

On both sides of my family, as far back as one can trace, there are only farmers. I have always wanted to be a farmer. I like to say that I do not know any better. It is what God wanted me to do: marry my wife Shirley, raise a family, and be a dairy farmer.

 The purpose of life is to be happy, not happiness for a moment, but eternal happiness. Looking back at my life, I did not realize this as a kid, but choosing to be a farmer made it easy to be happy.   

  My dad had me sit on the seat and hold the steering wheel of a tractor going half a mile an hour while he loaded corn bundles on the wagon. I only steered; my dad did everything else. He asked me if I could drive the tractor, and I said yes because it was just like driving my tricycle on the sidewalk. I was four years old. Exactly like God, my dad trusted me to do the right thing.

I rode in the tractor with my dad while cultivating corn a few years later. A small clump of dirt rolled up against a four-inch corn plant. There are twenty-five thousand plants per acre. Does one stressed plant make a difference? Dad thought so. He taught me to treat people the same way. Notice everyone in the room.

When I was twelve years old, we were picking rocks by hand as a family. We came across a rock that my dad could not lift. He asked me to help. I lifted from one end of the rock, rather than lifting from his end, he moved his hands where he would carry the weight of about ninety percent of the rock. Fifteen years later, our roles had reversed. I lifted over half the rock, and my dad the rest.   

View from Joe Molitor's tractor.

When I rode with my dad when he plowed, it was easy to see that doing as close to a perfect job as possible meant the crops would grow and yield well. Even neighbors would talk about how good Dad was at plowing. There was a rosary that hung around the mirror in his tractor. I would see him mouthing the words of the Hail Mary when I passed him in the field.

As Dad neared the end of his earthly life, I would go to the nursing home and pray the rosary with him. He led the rosary. I was the kid. He was the dad. Years ago, he always prayed the sorrowful mysteries. At the end of his life, he only prayed the Glorious Mysteries. The last time we prayed the Ascension into heaven mystery three times. A couple of days later he died on Easter Sunday.

Dad taught me through his actions, not by explanation.

Guest Blogger and dad of Abby and Leah,

Joe Molitor