My father’s dream for me became clear as I rode on the drawbar of the F-20 Farmall tractor. He was plowing on a steep hill when the front end rose a few inches above the ground. He tapped the left brake and the front end came down. He smiled as he said Watch what I do. You’ll be doing this some day.
My dream was different. How could I tell him my dream and shatter his? Could he understand that his limited education was not part of my dream? Would he ever realize that 80 acres and a small dairy herd were soon to become obsolete?
I ran the farm for two years while taking correspondence classes. I gently asked his permission to attend a boarding school in Philadelphia. This would be my first step toward becoming a minister.
He dropped me off at the school on Drexel Road. I watched him drive his Studebaker Champion out of the parking lot. Back at the farm he walked through the fields all alone. He said to himself I know now that Bubs will never take over the farm.
He auctioned the machinery and the stock. A broker sold the farm quickly. My father and mother moved to a small Pennsylvania village.
He never understood why I could not share his dream. We never spoke about it. I asked him to accompany me when I visited parishioner. As we were leaving the home I overheard my father say to the parishioners He’s a good boy. Decades later I can still hear his words of affirmation. Our dreams never meshed, but I knew he loved me. His affections did not fade.
While on a seven-week teaching itinerary in the Far East I received a cable telling me my father died. My thoughts drifted back to the 80 acres now displaced by a new freeway. I rode on the drawbar of the old F-20. I heard his voice. Watch what I do. You’ll be doing this some day.