Listen When We Can – We Have a Lot to Learn

When I was a little boy a couple of years ago, I wore clip-on ties to church.

I wore a bow tie or a necktie. A clip-on tie is a bow tie or necktie that is permanently tied and worn by attaching it to the front of the shirt collar with a clip or a band around the neck, fastened with a hook and eye. I preferred a bow tie if there was a chance of eating soup, plus it looked like a peculiar butterfly perched on my neck.

Why didn’t I tie my own ties? I could barely tie my shoes. If I had to wrestle with a tie, I’d have had to resort to using a stapler. You knew I had tied it when a necktie hung down my back.

Not everyone wears ties today, but we all have ties.

When my father had reached a point in his life where the only place he’d ever actively farm again was in his mind, I took him to Wesley, Iowa. He had ties there. I don’t know why I had not done it before. Life got in the way, I suppose. My mother and father farmed near Wesley before they moved to Minnesota. Mom became a true Minnesotan, but Dad seemed to linger in Iowa, the place of his birth. He appeared to be part of a witness relocation program. I thought I would unleash my inner private investigator and bother the people living in their old house in Kossuth County. It took us a while to find the Wesley farm because the driveway and the house were gone. There was no there there. That’s not true. There’s always something there. It was a gigantic farm field.

The sight of the lonely field wasn’t enough to induce oohs and aahs from me as if I were watching fireworks.

I’ve heard you can never go home again, but my father wore a big smile. He could see the house and the outbuildings in his mind. He began telling stories about his days there. He had gone home, with memories blessed by perspective. It was like the best day ever times a million.

I learned that Wesley is believed to have been named after John Wesley, who was a mechanic and foreman on the railroad, or after Wesley Bennett, who was the son of a surveyor working on laying out the railroad route.

I heard about a famous fellow born in Wesley in 1899, a pro baseball player named George “Showboat” Fisher. He moved with his family to a farm near St. Anna, Minn., when he was a few months old. Dad said Showboat had to go along to Minnesota because he was too young to stay in Iowa all alone, like he wanted. In a large family of Iowans, I was happy to hear of the Minnesota connection. Showboat played outfield with the Minneapolis Millers before making it to the majors with the Washington Senators in 1923-24. He played with the St. Louis Cardinals in the 1930 World Series. I looked it up later and saw the Cardinals lost to the Philadelphia Athletics in six games. Pine City, Minn., native Rube Walberg was a pitcher for the Athletics. Fisher’s last year in the majors was with the St. Louis Browns in 1932, and he opened a tavern on the shore of Middle Spunk Lake in Avon, Minn., that same year. Fisher played 15 years of pro ball with four years in the majors – 138 games, 340 at bats, and hit .335 with eight home runs. That would have earned him a Brink’s truck filled with money today.

Dad told family stories and talked about the neighbors, other farmers, a skinflint banker, and the weather in Wesley. He remembered ties that had little to do with a neck.

Anyone who has searched for life’s secret sauce has realized that life is filled with triumphs and failures.

Do I wish the building site had still existed? Of course, but I saw it in my father’s recollections.

Sometimes, it’s not what you search for, it’s who you search with.

Take that journey. Do not wait for the next time.

The next time may never happen.