"Sustained winds of 50 miles per hour and higher," blared the radio.
My wife was listening to the radio. She has a love-hate relationship with our
Minnesota weather. This has turned her into a bit of a weather junkie. She finds
our weather both intriguing and frightening. Her feelings are not unlike those
of a child watching a particularly scary horror movie, nearly scared to death,
yet seldom feeling so alive. I found myself staring out the window. Lightning
filled the sky and rumbling thunder shook the house. Rain began to fall. The
trees were bending in the strong wind. However, it was none of these things that
was commanding my attention. It was a little blue and white bird that I could
not take my eyes off of. I was looking at a Tree Swallow - a small bird that
nests in an old bluebird box in our rural yard. The tiny swallow, weighing at
most three-quarters of an ounce, was hanging on with dear life to a small branch
of a tree. Its mate was sitting on eggs inside the nest cavity. The wind blew
harder and harder, almost as though it was determined to shake the tiny bird
free from its perch. The bird's plight caused me to reflect on the trials of a
friend.
When my friend Keith broke his leg, he felt that it was the last straw. Keith, a
farmer all of his life, had been suffering from leukemia for a year and a half,
and a bone marrow transplant had produced disappointing results. The leukemia
had gone into remission, but the bone marrow hadn't started reproducing as
everyone had hoped. Things just hadn't been working out. Keith was pulling a
wagon with a four-wheeler when a freak accident happened, breaking his leg. It
was one of those cases where just as you think that things can't possibly get
any worse, they get worse.
Keith found himself laid up and with 160 acres of beans in the fields that
needed harvesting. It looked as if his wife and his 82-year-old father would
have to try to harvest the beans. Things were looking bad. Then a miracle
happened. The miracle came in the form of good neighbors. In the spirit of good
Samaritans, two neighbors organized five volunteer crews. Trucks and combines
poured into Keith's fields and made short work of the harvest. In less than
three hours, Keith's fields were bean-free. The project took longer to plan than
to do. I believe that neighbors are meant to help neighbors. I once tried to
talk my father into buying a neighbor's farm. The neighbor wasn't much of a
farmer and really didn't tend to his business. Besides, we could have used a
little extra land. I will never forget my father's answer to one of my pleas. It
was one of those responses that comes with its very own life's lesson. He told
me that he would rather have the neighbor than the neighbor's land. At the time,
I thought he was terribly old-fashioned and had let his feelings get in the way
of good business sense.
Watching the neighboring farmers harvest Keith's beans made me realize how right
my father was. I felt good watching so many people get together to help a
neighbor who was down on his luck. I knew that Keith would reciprocate if given
the chance. A fundraiser was organized for Keith and many people worked and
donated to a worthy cause. A meal was served to an overflowing crowd at the
local school. As I remembered these events, my thoughts and prayers were with
Keith. I hoped for his rapid and complete recovery.
My thoughts left Keith and his bean harvest when I heard a loud crack, followed
by a deafening crash. The fierce wind had blown down a large tree that had been
standing forever and a day in our yard. I looked at the fallen tree with a touch
of sadness. I could plant another tree and I would, but I would never see one of
the same size in its place. Then I remembered the Tree Swallow. My eyes sought
the bird. I looked at the branch and saw that the small bird was still hanging
on despite the heavy wind, the thunder, the lightning, the rain and the falling
tree. My spirit soared because I knew, as one is allowed to know these things,
that my friend Keith was going to be all right.
Al Batt SnoEowl@aol.com
Al Batt is a husband, father and grandfather who lives on a farm near Hartland,
Minnesota. He is a writer, speaker and storyteller. He writes a newspaper
column. He does a regular TV and radio show, contributes to many magazines and
newspapers, and is an avid birder.
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