~Tuesday, April 9th.

I’m beginning to run out of things to give up. Especially now that I’m praying for groups of people, so I have no specific requests from individuals who know how to really get under my skin with stuff. (Looking at you, Jena, who made me leave my jewelry at home!) Lent’s not supposed to be easy, though, so I picked something today that I would miss dearly, because my prayers are encompassing.

I will do without Google.

Yes, I use it all the time at work.

I check out the weather.

I shop for things I don’t need, but think I do.

I use it to look up popular restaurants.

Then I use it to find the good restaurants.

Yes, I use it even more for song lyrics.

Yes, I USE IT FOR EVERYTHING. JUST LIKE YOU DO.

And it got me to thinking. Everything I need to know can be found within seconds. And I really depend on it. And I absolutely take it for granted. It is so frustrating when I run out of data, or the internet is down, or I’m in no man’s land and it takes more than ten seconds for a search to come up. But what did the farmers do? What do many of them still do? A long long time ago, before everybody had a cell phone in their pocket, we had a tiny, heavy computer at the Co-op. It was about the size of a microwave and weighed a stone. And I don’t mean the British weight equivalent stone, I mean it weighed like it was a piece of granite. And on this little computer, we could access two things: doppler radar and grain prices. Joe Woods knew how to pull up what cattle brought at the stockyards, but he never taught me. And so I spent much of my day running back and forth from the phone to the little computer that was perched on a shelf on the paneled back wall. Especially if the threat of rain was coming and everybody and their brother had hay down. It’s impossible to think we had only one, and that it could do things our cash registers couldn’t. But that was almost twenty years ago.

Farmers for generations have learned by doing. They didn’t watch YouTube videos on how to pull calves. There are no hard and fast formulas for how much fertilizer to apply to hayfields. There are some standards, but it varies widely. There were no apps for identifying weeds and pests and weather. They had to be diligent. They had to be observant. They had to remember what had worked in the past for their neighbors.

Of course, we’re getting away form all the guesswork now. But the farmers still have it rough. They’re dependent on the rain, the sun, and their health. They don’t get sick days or vacation time. They don’t have the luxury of drawing a paycheck if it rains for two weeks and they can’t plant their corn or their soybeans. If they don’t get their hay cut and baled in a timely fashion, their cattle don’t eat that winter. Who’s gonna feed you if the farmers quit? We’re all dependent on them. And they depend on the good Lord and the honeybees.

I think of the grain belt. It’s all but been washed away. How many millions of tons of wheat and corn were lost? We may all be on a low carb diet before this is over. I think of all the hogs and chickens and cows that drowned in the flood waters. I think of waking up and looking over your farm that’s now under two feet of water and a foot of thick black mud. And all you can do is stand by and watch and praise God your family is okay. Three or four or five generations of work gone in an instant, floating down the Mississippi.

I think of the migrant workers, here because no white man will labor bent over picking tomatoes ten hours a day in the heat of summer. We all want more money. But many working-age men will just draw off the government instead, and lay around smoking cigarettes and whatever else in front of their housing-issued flat screen TV.

Farmers buy their jeans at Hammers, because the cows don’t know any difference. Their computer is a palm-sized spiral notepad tucked into their shirt pocket. They eat bologna and cheese sandwiches at lunch and fried chicken for supper, prepared by their wife, who gets her hair set on Friday mornings and wears an apron unless she’s going to town. Farmers read the Good Book and the Almanac, and that’s about it. They squint in the sun and change their own oil. They sleep when it’s dark, unless something is broke and then they toil all night to get it fixed so they can work the next day. They keep their boots on the porch and a knife in their pocket.

Farmers ain’t got much time for Facebook and the like, but they’ll teach their grandbabies how to bait a hook and shoot a BB gun before they turn 8. They can peel an apple without the skin ever coming apart and crack a walnut in their hands. Farmers despise the bank and distrust the government. They ain’t got much use for people that live in subdivisions, either.

They’ll fence back that portion of fence in the curve of the road that gets torn down by some kid or some drunk twice a year. Insurance ain’t worth fooling with.

They can build a fire and carry two five gallon buckets of water downhill for fifty yards without spilling a drop. They keep a mean momma cow at bay with a tobacco stick. They pay cash for a new John Deere when it’s time.

They pay cash for almost everything, and they pay attention.

They listen to Waylon Jennings and Loretta Lynn and bluegrass and take notice when clouds roll in. They can name every tree on their farm, tell you the last time they saw their third cousin, and explain the difference between Blue Lake green beans and Kentucky Wonders. And they’ll let you know right quick that the only kind of potato there is is a Bluegoose Kennebec.

They know where their great-great grand daddy is buried, where he lived, and what church he attended. On both sides. Their wife keeps flowers on the graves, and he sees to it that it’s mowed.

They won’t eat avocados, don’t bother wasting your breath. They just recently came around to coconut, and that’s only if it’s in a pie.

They’d rather sit in their dusty old barn in a metal folding chair and drink a coke and listen to the ballgame on a staticky radio than to be there in person.

They might pause a minute sometimes and watch the birds work. And that’s when they may work out for themselves something they’ve been thinking on.

They like things a specific way, and don’t like change. They see most of nature as a food chain but do have a soft spot for certain creatures, sometimes. They’ll give you a quarter for every thistle you kill on their place and shake your hand if you tell them you shot a coyote.

They know it would be cheaper to buy eggs from the store, but they also know they won’t taste as good. They’ll plant daffodils in secret for their wives up the side of the driveway and then grin when she notices.

They know to shop local even if it costs a little more. They know a horse is a money pit, but they’ll keep one around for their grandkids. And that dog is theirs, too. Even though they wouldn’t dream of leaving the dog at home if they’re running down to the store.

So, after all that, I’ll offer them a prayer. I think I’m qualified.

Lord, bless the farmers. Especially the ones who do their praying from behind the dirty windshield of their old trucks as they go to help a neighbor. Bless them with a good growing season, and enough rain, but not too much. May they get the sun as they need it, and a cool breeze for their brow every now and then. Bless the farmers who struggle to maintain what they’ve had for a century. Bless them who have been losing a little more every year. For the dairymen, for the cattlemen, for all the ones who grow and produce and love the land. Bless them all. Thank you Lord that somebody is willing and able to do it. Thank you for their patience and perseverance. Thank you for their deep pockets and bigger hearts. Thank you for helping them keep the faith and pass on their knowledge. Because Google can’t teach us everything. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

Love from Appalachia,

Amy xoxo