Why I Am Not a Real Odaffer

Brief Preface

This is a rare blog post for me, in that it is focused pretty much on “I” and “me.”  Please excuse, and be gentle in your deserved criticism.

About Real Odaffers  

I grew up on a farm.  It just seemed that to be a “real Odaffer,” you had to be a farmer. Sort of an unwritten rule for us Odaffers.

My dad Ray was a farmer.  My grandfather Ed was a farmer. And my great grandfather David was a farmer, and so was my great great great grandfather Henry. I later found out that my great great great great grandfather John Wolfgang spent the latter years of his life working on the John Mason farms in Maryland.

And whale of a lot of other Odaffers have been farmers, including one who wanted a male child to help him farm, but was blessed with eight daughters.

But when they came to me, they must have thrown away the mold.  Somehow, at an early age, I knew that, even though I liked the farm, I was not going to be a farmer.  I was not going to be a “real Odaffer.”

So now, at age 80, and even after having owned a farm or two in my life, I feel a need to figure out why full-fledged farming just wasn’t for me.  If I knew, maybe I could help some young Odaffer-wondering whether to be a farmer — to make his or her career choice.

What Growing Up On A Farm Did For Me

As I look back upon my life, the one thing that stands out in stark relief is that growing up on a farm really painted the heavens for me.  There was something about the richness of living on the farm that helped me develop a positive approach to life.

Like the animals, I was always ready to engage in a new day.  And the planting and harvesting gave me the feeling that you could count on things to generally come out OK.  It felt safe and encouraging.

The idea that if you worked hard you could provide almost everything you and your animals needed — the good ole Midwest work ethic —  gave me a lot of satisfaction and security.  And because we were very poor and had almost nothing- I learned to live simply and wasn’t preoccupied with the need for “things.” You feel pretty positive when you have everything you need.

And on top of this, the farm was interesting.  “Why are you spending all this time smacking those corn stocks together,” my sister Jane would ask — really dying to know. It didn’t feel right to tell her that I was pretending to be Knights of the Round table, engaged in a fierce battle, or Robin Hood and Friar Tuck fighting with quarterstaffs, or Beowulf, who I thought was a brave Viking, engaged in a battle for his life.

The farm was a great place to exercise my imagination- to pretend- and to get those creative juices to flow.  It was simply a fun place to be.

Why Did I Almost Stay On the Farm?

Yes, I almost did.

At Deland-Weldon Senior High School — almost to my own surprise — I took Vocational Agriculture classes, and joined the FFA (Future Farmers of America, no less). I was FFA president, and received FFA awards. Farming, in rural Weldon, Illinois, just creeps into your blood.

I learned about agriculture, how to judge cattle and hogs, how to select and plant grain, how to do basic work with tools, and a lot more.

Some would have said I was on my way to becoming a Jim-Dandy farmer!

One spring afternoon — when I was 15 years old —  I was with a group of classmates and my Vo Ag teacher on a farm tour when news reached us that my father was involved in a farm accident.

When we arrived at the field, where my father and a helper had been building a fence using a tractor with a post-hole digging auger attached, I was totally shocked and devastated to see my father’s dead body wrapped around the auger.  There was nothing anybody could do.

My brother-in-law farmed our farm the rest of that year, and then we sold it.

I think if I have been 18 instead of 15 when my father died, I would have felt a greater obligation and capability to take over the farm, and might have retired a farmer, just like my father and grandfathers before me.

So Why Did I Not Become a Farmer?

After much thought, I come to the conclusion that I simply just don’t know for sure.  But I do know it was not a choice made by chance.  I knew early on that I really didn’t want to be a farmer.

Interestingly, even though my father’s death affected me deeply, I don’t think it was a major factor in my not becoming a farmer. On the contrary, it got me as close to being a farmer as I ever got.

It was a fact that no one on my mother’s side ever farmed. It just seemed that they, too, knew that they did not want to be farmers. I think they simply were not made that way. Perhaps I had an overbalance of genes from my mother’s side.

Or maybe there is this deep-seated guidance system in a person (some might call it “God’s guidance” that simply let’s you know that there are other things in store for you.

Whatever the real reason, after all these years I can only say, “Sometimes you just feel things ‘in your bones.“