A life of simple living and giving


(Author’s note: The following column was first published the week of Christmas 1998. Now, by tradition, it returns. Merry Christmas. –Alan)

The Christmas tree was a scrub cedar hacked from the edge of the woods that bordered the farm.

Big-bulbed lights, strung in barber pole fashion, generated almost as much heat as the nearby wood stove.

Yellowed Christmas cards, saved over the years and perched like doves in the untrimmed branches, served as ornaments.

“I believe this is the prettiest tree I’ve ever had,” Howard proclaimed as we stood in its glow. “And it smells good, too.”

The only scent evident to me was a mixture of wood smoke and the lingering remains of a fried pork supper. But I lied and said, “Sure does.”

Howard beckoned me to sit. We had shared this Christmas Day in the dairy barn and it was his request that we share a bit of the night, also.

He knew I was alone because my family, his employer, was visiting relatives. I knew he was alone because he was always alone, a bachelor for nearly 40 years.

“I’ll get us some Christmas cheer,” he offered as I sank into the sofa.

In untied workshoes he shuffled toward the kitchen. A minute later, he returned with two water glasses filled with rhubarb wine. We raised them to the day.

“It’s been a good Christmas, ain’t it Allie-Boy?” he asked as he sat in a ladderback chair by the stove.

He had called me Allie Boy for as long as I could remember. I had taken to call him Hoard the Dairyman, after the farm magazine my father subscribed to.

I nodded. It had been a good day. Two wobbly newborn calves greeted us when we arrived at the dairy barn 16 hours earlier. We dried the wet and shivering babies with the past summer’s straw before showing them how to find breakfast at their mamas’ sides. One was a bull; the other a heifer.

“We ought to name ’em Mary and Joseph,” Howard now said as we rehashed the day, “on account of them being born today.”

Mary and Joseph? Generally, Howard had one universal name for all our cows: Succum.

None of us knew what it meant or where it came from, but from the time he arrived on the farm in 1965 every cow was always Succum and every heifer was always Little Succum. A group of cows or calves were simply Big Succums or Baby Succums.

“Mary and Joseph they will be,” I said approvingly.

Silence hung in the stale air. I reckoned that if you had bached it for 40 years, silence wasn’t a void that needed to be filled.

So I worked on my wine and said nothing. Howard reached for his pipe and the big red can of Velvet that had been my Christmas gift to him that morning.

“You want to roll yourself a smoke, Allie? I got some papers here.” I shook off the offer. Howard stuffed his well-chewed Dr. Grabow and touched a match to its charred bowl.

“Yep,” Howard said as if to himself a moment later, “that’s the prettiest tree I’ve ever had. And this is shaping up to be the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had because you came by.”

I looked at the tree and then at the old man ringed in pipe tobacco smoke staring at it and I felt sad.

Not for him. I felt sad for me. I had agreed to come to his house to accommodate him, a favor for a hired man.

But he had not wanted a favor. All he had wanted was the chance to share his Christmas good fortune with me. He had some new wine, a warm fire, his best Christmas tree ever and week’s worth of tobacco. He was happy and he wanted to give me some of that happiness.

As I stared at the silhouette of Hoard the Dairyman in the glow of the Christmas lights, I saw a man of great warmth, vast wealth and pure honesty. He didn’t have a checking account or credit card, but he was far richer than the condescending college boy on his sofa.

“Well Hoard,” I said a very quiet minute later, “I better go. We both have got to be at the barn early tomorrow.”

He led me to the back door. “Don’t forget,” he said as I headed for the pick-up, “we’ll call those calves Mary and Joseph.”

More than 30 Christmas nights later, I have not forgotten two calves named Mary and Joseph and Howard’s priceless gift of simple giving.

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Alan Guebert was raised on an 800-acre, 100-cow southern Illinois dairy farm. After graduation from the University of Illinois in 1980, he served as a writer and editor at Professional Farmers of America, Successful Farming magazine and Farm Journal magazine. His syndicated agricultural column, The Farm and Food File, began in June, 1993, and now appears weekly in more than 70 publications throughout the U.S. and Canada. He and spouse Catherine, a social worker, have two adult children. farmandfoodfile.com



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