The Soil of a Man, the 5th part
[from the the beginning, if you missed it...]
McCann's sermons made you think, made you wonder, hinted that some of what you'd always suspected to be true just might actually be. His words danced. That afternoon after lunch, I asked him why he took up farming when he already had a job at the church.
"Well," he said, giving pause for a deep pull on his pipe, "when I moved to Abingdon, half the town trusted me because I was a preacher. But then half the town didn't trust me for the same reason. I took up farming so I could be friends with that other half."
McCann chuckled, took another pull and added. "But mainly, I like the dirt."
I thought I might know what he meant, why a farmer would see value in his soil. However, with McCann you were never quite sure. I learned right off that he had a different kind of eyes from most people. He saw things you'd never noticed, but after he pointed it out, you wondered how you'd ever seen anything else. "What do you like about the dirt?"
"I like that it's here. I like that it was here long before me, and it will be here long after I'm gone. I like that it takes the scorching heat and the bitter cold, the dryness that would ruin any man and the torrential wet that would drown any man – it takes it all, absorbs it, and lives on. It lives on – and, year after year after year, it keeps bringing life out of its bosom."
McCann bent down and dug his fingers in the rich black ground, scooping up handfuls and letting it run through his fingers back to the earth. "And I like that this dirt that's sitting here is only sitting right here, nowhere else. It has its own story. This dirt is for this place. This dirt is particular."
That first year, I learned that everything about McCann was particular. He cared little for vague ideas or general assumptions. He dug into the dirt wherever he went. For instance, McCann was at the Coffee Cup, every Friday at 7 a.m., sharp. It wasn't that the other diners weren't every bit as worthy, and it certainly wasn't that he was a man of mindless habit. Rather, McCann believed that showing up at the same time at the same place with the same people was the only way you ever get past the offhand greetings and into the thick of things.
How else would McCann have known that Maurice had a daughter in L.A. trying to scrape up rent and kick heroine so she could get back into film school? Or that Tubby, the sarcastic cook at the grill, had reasons for his orneriness. He never wanted the diner. He was living his father's dream. How else would McCann have known that Margaret laughed too loudly – and too often – because she didn't know what else to do with herself, never had? How else would he know that Tucker dreamed of Alaska and reeling in the big one and that Rhoda dreamed of white dresses and reeling in Tucker? How else would he have known the joy and the sadness that walked through those doors every Friday? But he did know. He showed up so he could.
[to be continued...]
McCann's sermons made you think, made you wonder, hinted that some of what you'd always suspected to be true just might actually be. His words danced. That afternoon after lunch, I asked him why he took up farming when he already had a job at the church.
"Well," he said, giving pause for a deep pull on his pipe, "when I moved to Abingdon, half the town trusted me because I was a preacher. But then half the town didn't trust me for the same reason. I took up farming so I could be friends with that other half."
McCann chuckled, took another pull and added. "But mainly, I like the dirt."
I thought I might know what he meant, why a farmer would see value in his soil. However, with McCann you were never quite sure. I learned right off that he had a different kind of eyes from most people. He saw things you'd never noticed, but after he pointed it out, you wondered how you'd ever seen anything else. "What do you like about the dirt?"
"I like that it's here. I like that it was here long before me, and it will be here long after I'm gone. I like that it takes the scorching heat and the bitter cold, the dryness that would ruin any man and the torrential wet that would drown any man – it takes it all, absorbs it, and lives on. It lives on – and, year after year after year, it keeps bringing life out of its bosom."
McCann bent down and dug his fingers in the rich black ground, scooping up handfuls and letting it run through his fingers back to the earth. "And I like that this dirt that's sitting here is only sitting right here, nowhere else. It has its own story. This dirt is for this place. This dirt is particular."
That first year, I learned that everything about McCann was particular. He cared little for vague ideas or general assumptions. He dug into the dirt wherever he went. For instance, McCann was at the Coffee Cup, every Friday at 7 a.m., sharp. It wasn't that the other diners weren't every bit as worthy, and it certainly wasn't that he was a man of mindless habit. Rather, McCann believed that showing up at the same time at the same place with the same people was the only way you ever get past the offhand greetings and into the thick of things.
How else would McCann have known that Maurice had a daughter in L.A. trying to scrape up rent and kick heroine so she could get back into film school? Or that Tubby, the sarcastic cook at the grill, had reasons for his orneriness. He never wanted the diner. He was living his father's dream. How else would McCann have known that Margaret laughed too loudly – and too often – because she didn't know what else to do with herself, never had? How else would he know that Tucker dreamed of Alaska and reeling in the big one and that Rhoda dreamed of white dresses and reeling in Tucker? How else would he have known the joy and the sadness that walked through those doors every Friday? But he did know. He showed up so he could.
[to be continued...]
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