I know it sounds strange to live so close to a family member and not even have a speaking relationship with them, but that was the reality. He lived in a small white house on a large lot with my aunt Myrtle who was always very ill. He tended to her every need, loving and caring for her to the end when she passed away. He was rarely seen in public except to go to church, and after church, he went directly home.
My uncle Albert passed on many years ago, and I have thought of him often, regretting not having known him better.
One day when I was about sixteen, Albert paid my father a visit. By then, Albert must have been in his eighties. They spoke behind closed doors for half an hour or so. When Albert left, my father called my younger brother and I to him and told us that the following Monday morning, we were starting a new job.
Albert leased thirty acres near our home and raised pinto beans. After he died, his daughter told me that he raised pinto beans because they were of a higher nutritional value than other varieties, although they fetched a lower price at market. But that was the sort of decision that characterized his life. His decisions were always principled and intentional, never random or swayed by lessor factors such as money.
It must have been difficult for him to ask my father for help that day, and he must have felt like he had no other choice. Can you imagine a man in his eighties cultivating thirty acres? He also tended a smaller garden at home which by today's standards would be considered very large. He did so because it met his needs, and he supported himself in this way.
As he explained our job to us that first day, it became obvious why he needed our help. His back had become so stiff with age that he couldn't get up and down without help and the round trip, even with help, extracted a steep toll. The pain and discomfort were obvious even to a couple of oblivious, self absorbed teens.
He explained what was expected and how to proceed so that we wouldn't damage the bean plants, showing us by beginning the first row and then, he was off to his tiller to remove weeds from the space between the rows of beans. That was the first time I ever remember him talking to me.
My brother and I began weeding the beans and slowly worked our way up the rows until we reached the top of the first row. It was very slow going because one particular weed known as bind weed had established itself so completely in some sections that it was difficult to even see the bean plants trapped in the grip of this fast growing viney weed, and even more difficult to separate the two without damaging the beans.
The rows were long enough that the first row took us about an hour to complete. It was dull, tedious, back breaking work, but things didn't really begin to get difficult until the sun came out in full strength around noon when we took our first break. It was at this time that we ate our lunch and rested for a bit under the cool shade offered by a clump of trees growing to one side of the beans. After a half hour or so, we returned to the rows and resumed weeding the beans in the punishing sun.
It took a couple of weeks working long days to make our way through the entire bean patch and when we looked back to the point where we had started, we realized that it was time to begin again as the weeds we pulled up two weeks earlier at that spot had been replaced by fresh new recruits. And so we retraced our steps and began weeding from the beginning again.
After our second pass through the bean patch a month had gone by and we were paid for the first time. It was at that time we realized that we were only being paid a dollar an hour for our labor. Granted, this was not skilled labor, but the job I worked at previously wasn't any more skilled than this and it paid over three dollars an hour. It was demoralizing and we both felt a little bit like we'd been taken advantage of. We decided that the next day we would work while it was cool and then, we would retire to the shade of the trees and relax during the heat of the day. We figured that we were doing the favors and that we weren't about to work when it was hot.
This, of course, was a bad idea because only by working through the entire day were we able to keep the weeds knocked back far enough for the beans to receive the sunlight that they needed to produce well, and Albert depended on a good harvest to support himself. We were too young and inexperienced at that time to consider the importance of such things and could only see ourselves in this situation, and how we were being being unjustly treated.
So anyway, that's what we did. Around ten or eleven in the morning we both walked over to the shade and sat down. While we were sitting there, Albert was still out among the beans walking behind his tiller and doing the best he could even in the heat of the day. So, there we were, two healthy young teenagers sitting in the shade while an eighty something year old man worked through the hottest part of the day.
I still remember him looking back at us as he slowly made his way up the rows of beans. It took him fifteen to twenty minutes to make his way up a row, and each time he turned around to head back down the next row, he would look over at us and shake his head a little in disappointment. He made three or four passes up and down the rows each time hoping to see that we had returned to our work, but each time we disappointed him and he found us still stubbornly sitting in the shade of those trees.
I remember when he finally reached the top the row after making another pass. This time was different, and he switched off his tiller and began picking his way through the beans toward us. Because of his age and the uneven ground, it took him some time to reach us and both my brother and I stood as he approached, not necessarily out of respect for the man who stood before us as would have been proper, but mostly because our conscience had convicted us and we stood as if rising before a judge ready to recieve sentencing for the crimes we had committed.
He stood before us with his head to the ground for what seemed like a very long time. We couldn't see his face under the wide brimmed hat he used to shade himself from the burning rays of the sun, but we were both convinced that if we could have, we would have seen a healthy dose of anger and frustration. Neither of us wanted to look him in the eye and see the anger and disappointment that was surely there, and we were both relieved that his gaze was mercifully directed downward rather than at us. My brother and I also instinctively found our gaze directed downward as we both studied the ground and waited for Albert to find his words.
The conscience is a curious thing. We entered the shade of those trees convinced that we were the victims of what we perceived to be a great injustice, but at that moment, we both felt the weight that regret and shame produce when things are done wrong. My conscience seems to be connected to a higher and more reliable truth than what my meager intellect allows. I find that when I follow the dictates of my conscience, I am always glad I did.
What happened next was unexpected and a truly rare and remarkable thing. My uncle turned his gaze upward and when our eyes met, there wasn't even a hint of anger or disappointment in his eyes. What I saw was love for me and deep concern and understanding.
The wisdom he possessed plumbed depths that my inexperienced youth couldn't even begin to fathom. And the amazing thing is that he was able to convey all this with his kind, gentle gaze, and the humble words which followed. But it was mostly through his gaze, his words merely reinforcing what was most plainly manifest through the warmth and sincere concern his eyes communicated. If the eyes really are windows to the soul, then what I saw there that day was one of the purest, most noble and loving souls I have ever met.
Instead of raising his voice in anger, he apologized for the meager wages he paid and explained it was all he had. He said he wished he could pay more because the quality of our work deserved a higher wage. He expressed sincere gratitude for our help and thanked us for our labor. Then he asked us if we wouldn't consider sticking with him through the rest of the summer explaining how very badly he needed our help.
I've rarely felt as humble as I did that day. My brother and I finished out that summer with my uncle on the dollar an hour wage which he continued to pay us, but from that time forward we never felt that we were ever under paid. We both would have worked for Albert without being paid any money at all, and we talked with our father about this, but my father insisted that we accept what he could afford to pay explaining that this would be important to Albert.
From then on we went to work not out of sense of duty or respect for our parents, but because we loved our uncle Albert and we knew he loved us. The work was just as hard, tedious and dull as it ever was before, but we gave it our best effort from then on, throwing our whole heart into our work because after our experience in the bean patch that day, we understood exactly why we were doing it. We never complained after that enlightening and unforgettable day.
From that day forward I too, like my father, have spoken of Albert often and I speak of him kindly and with the great respect and love his memory deserves. It wasn't long after this singular experience that he passed on from this life to be with his wife again in the next.
Albert leased thirty acres near our home and raised pinto beans. After he died, his daughter told me that he raised pinto beans because they were of a higher nutritional value than other varieties, although they fetched a lower price at market. But that was the sort of decision that characterized his life. His decisions were always principled and intentional, never random or swayed by lessor factors such as money.
It must have been difficult for him to ask my father for help that day, and he must have felt like he had no other choice. Can you imagine a man in his eighties cultivating thirty acres? He also tended a smaller garden at home which by today's standards would be considered very large. He did so because it met his needs, and he supported himself in this way.
As he explained our job to us that first day, it became obvious why he needed our help. His back had become so stiff with age that he couldn't get up and down without help and the round trip, even with help, extracted a steep toll. The pain and discomfort were obvious even to a couple of oblivious, self absorbed teens.
He explained what was expected and how to proceed so that we wouldn't damage the bean plants, showing us by beginning the first row and then, he was off to his tiller to remove weeds from the space between the rows of beans. That was the first time I ever remember him talking to me.
My brother and I began weeding the beans and slowly worked our way up the rows until we reached the top of the first row. It was very slow going because one particular weed known as bind weed had established itself so completely in some sections that it was difficult to even see the bean plants trapped in the grip of this fast growing viney weed, and even more difficult to separate the two without damaging the beans.
The rows were long enough that the first row took us about an hour to complete. It was dull, tedious, back breaking work, but things didn't really begin to get difficult until the sun came out in full strength around noon when we took our first break. It was at this time that we ate our lunch and rested for a bit under the cool shade offered by a clump of trees growing to one side of the beans. After a half hour or so, we returned to the rows and resumed weeding the beans in the punishing sun.
It took a couple of weeks working long days to make our way through the entire bean patch and when we looked back to the point where we had started, we realized that it was time to begin again as the weeds we pulled up two weeks earlier at that spot had been replaced by fresh new recruits. And so we retraced our steps and began weeding from the beginning again.
After our second pass through the bean patch a month had gone by and we were paid for the first time. It was at that time we realized that we were only being paid a dollar an hour for our labor. Granted, this was not skilled labor, but the job I worked at previously wasn't any more skilled than this and it paid over three dollars an hour. It was demoralizing and we both felt a little bit like we'd been taken advantage of. We decided that the next day we would work while it was cool and then, we would retire to the shade of the trees and relax during the heat of the day. We figured that we were doing the favors and that we weren't about to work when it was hot.
This, of course, was a bad idea because only by working through the entire day were we able to keep the weeds knocked back far enough for the beans to receive the sunlight that they needed to produce well, and Albert depended on a good harvest to support himself. We were too young and inexperienced at that time to consider the importance of such things and could only see ourselves in this situation, and how we were being being unjustly treated.
So anyway, that's what we did. Around ten or eleven in the morning we both walked over to the shade and sat down. While we were sitting there, Albert was still out among the beans walking behind his tiller and doing the best he could even in the heat of the day. So, there we were, two healthy young teenagers sitting in the shade while an eighty something year old man worked through the hottest part of the day.
I still remember him looking back at us as he slowly made his way up the rows of beans. It took him fifteen to twenty minutes to make his way up a row, and each time he turned around to head back down the next row, he would look over at us and shake his head a little in disappointment. He made three or four passes up and down the rows each time hoping to see that we had returned to our work, but each time we disappointed him and he found us still stubbornly sitting in the shade of those trees.
I remember when he finally reached the top the row after making another pass. This time was different, and he switched off his tiller and began picking his way through the beans toward us. Because of his age and the uneven ground, it took him some time to reach us and both my brother and I stood as he approached, not necessarily out of respect for the man who stood before us as would have been proper, but mostly because our conscience had convicted us and we stood as if rising before a judge ready to recieve sentencing for the crimes we had committed.
He stood before us with his head to the ground for what seemed like a very long time. We couldn't see his face under the wide brimmed hat he used to shade himself from the burning rays of the sun, but we were both convinced that if we could have, we would have seen a healthy dose of anger and frustration. Neither of us wanted to look him in the eye and see the anger and disappointment that was surely there, and we were both relieved that his gaze was mercifully directed downward rather than at us. My brother and I also instinctively found our gaze directed downward as we both studied the ground and waited for Albert to find his words.
The conscience is a curious thing. We entered the shade of those trees convinced that we were the victims of what we perceived to be a great injustice, but at that moment, we both felt the weight that regret and shame produce when things are done wrong. My conscience seems to be connected to a higher and more reliable truth than what my meager intellect allows. I find that when I follow the dictates of my conscience, I am always glad I did.
What happened next was unexpected and a truly rare and remarkable thing. My uncle turned his gaze upward and when our eyes met, there wasn't even a hint of anger or disappointment in his eyes. What I saw was love for me and deep concern and understanding.
The wisdom he possessed plumbed depths that my inexperienced youth couldn't even begin to fathom. And the amazing thing is that he was able to convey all this with his kind, gentle gaze, and the humble words which followed. But it was mostly through his gaze, his words merely reinforcing what was most plainly manifest through the warmth and sincere concern his eyes communicated. If the eyes really are windows to the soul, then what I saw there that day was one of the purest, most noble and loving souls I have ever met.
Instead of raising his voice in anger, he apologized for the meager wages he paid and explained it was all he had. He said he wished he could pay more because the quality of our work deserved a higher wage. He expressed sincere gratitude for our help and thanked us for our labor. Then he asked us if we wouldn't consider sticking with him through the rest of the summer explaining how very badly he needed our help.
I've rarely felt as humble as I did that day. My brother and I finished out that summer with my uncle on the dollar an hour wage which he continued to pay us, but from that time forward we never felt that we were ever under paid. We both would have worked for Albert without being paid any money at all, and we talked with our father about this, but my father insisted that we accept what he could afford to pay explaining that this would be important to Albert.
From then on we went to work not out of sense of duty or respect for our parents, but because we loved our uncle Albert and we knew he loved us. The work was just as hard, tedious and dull as it ever was before, but we gave it our best effort from then on, throwing our whole heart into our work because after our experience in the bean patch that day, we understood exactly why we were doing it. We never complained after that enlightening and unforgettable day.
From that day forward I too, like my father, have spoken of Albert often and I speak of him kindly and with the great respect and love his memory deserves. It wasn't long after this singular experience that he passed on from this life to be with his wife again in the next.
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