Lynn made his last
ride from church to cemetery in a horse drawn wagon. It was a slow ride, fitting for Lynn as he
demonstrated the past few years, being in no hurry to make that trip. After visiting with a few neighbors and
walking a hundred yards to my vehicle, the procession was just headed north on
109 as I turned west on 3J and headed for home.
My memory of Lynn
goes back to preschool days. I can only
think of one reason why we would have called on the Bud Fishers. We borrowed what we called a “slush bucket”,
a well-cleaning device. It was a length
of three-inch pipe with a flapper valve in the bottom. Drop the pipe in the well, rope attached of
course, and pull it up and let it drop a few times. The silt and sand would work its way up into
the pipe while the butterfly valve opened on the down stroke and closed on the
upstroke. Pull the pipe up, full of sand
and silt.
When we were
there, my two brothers and I took a ride with Lynn on his farmhand to do some
kind of chore. After the ride, the three
older guys all piled down from the Fatmhand and took off. I was slowly finding my way off the machine
when Lynn stopped, turned around, came back and lifted me off the farmhand and
stowed me safely on the ground. I was
surprised by his thoughtfulness, but I always felt after that moment early in
life that Lynn was a guy who would help a person.
I never had any
reason to change my mind on that.
There would be a couple of times when we would
have to call on Lynn, usually to use his phone to call for help. (The olden days when there were no cell
phones.) Once, the old Chevy started
misfiring in a heavy snowstorm. Another
time the oil line broke on the old GMC truck.
There was a convenient telephone in the shop.
The last time I
saw Lynn to really visit with him was a couple of years ago in Anton. I went there for an all-day seminar to renew
my pesticide applicator’s license. I was
a little early because I wasn’t sure of my way.
Besides, I might get lost in Anton (grocery store, post office, Coop
Station, grain elevator, and a few houses).
I did go to the wrong place, the service station instead of the grain
elevator. I was redirected from there.
I didn’t know
anyone, at the meeting, so I moved up to the front row where I had a table to myself and was
close enough to see and hear. A few
minutes before the thing was to start, Lynn and Iris came wheeling in and pulled
up beside me. We conversed during the breaks
throughout the day. Lynn was lamenting
that he had no sons who could take over for him, thus he must maintain his
pesticide applicator’s license.
No grandsons
interested? Not one, he said. I commiserated, though Lynn had much more to
offer to an interested party.
Lynn was not
without his detractors. Many merchants
felt Lynn drove a hard bargain. Many an
employee felt too much was demanded of them
But all would admit that Lynn demanded a lot more from himself than from
anyone else.
Lynn had an
automobile accident some years ago that left him a paraplegic. He would suffer yet another auto accident
that would cost him his right hand. He
would have to learn to do everything left handed. And he did it.
The homily at his
service was title “Not Yet”. The speaker
referred to Lynn’s perseverance in the face of all odds. Many times Lynn came close to death, but he
struggled back to go on living, as if to say, “Not yet” to death. It was a fitting tribute.
When Lynn first
came back to take over the farm, his dad Bud still lived on the home place on
the corner. Lynn lived in a trailer
house on a hilltop about a mile north.
He planted trees and made the place home until his father retired. One of the trees, a giant blue spruce now
juts fifty feet into the sky. It has
survived the hot summers, the cold bitter winters, and the wind that amplifies
whatever Mother Nature sends. It has
thriven with the help of the good times.
The tree, visible
from miles around, now stands as a fitting symbol for Lynn’s life
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