Pater: primogeniture...

Pater: primogeniture...  At right is Mo'i, chugging his way through a field of wildflowers in Corkscrew Gulch of Colorado's San Juan Mountains.  Mo'i was my dad's favorite dog amongst ours – a male field spaniel who shared my dad's love of food and naps...

Primogeniture...

I am the oldest child of my parents, who were farmers – and farmers, by long informal custom, tend to practice primogeniture (inheritance by the oldest son).  To the best of my knowledge, in the U.S. this has always been a matter of tradition and custom, not law.  It's also something that is honored as much in the breach as in the observance.

My dad (my entire family, actually) is notable for not following all that many traditions and customs.  We're weird, and we're proud of it!  While I certainly knew that I was the oldest son, and knew in a general way that the oldest sons of farmers frequently “took over the farm”, I don't recall ever thinking that such a custom might apply to me.  I had absolutely no interest in any kind of agricultural career – between my (life long :) aversion to hard physical labor and my keen interest in science and technology, spending my life on the farm was not an attractive proposition.  I spent no time at all considering it.

One evening after I graduated from high school and was still living at home, my dad awkwardly asked if I would talk with him a bit.  We were in his “office”, then down in the basement of our home.  We sat down to talk, but he was having a terrible time working up the courage to have his say.  He talked all around the subject of my future on the farm, mostly by asking me questions.  For instance, he asked me if I enjoyed watching the seedlings grow into nursery stock, and if I thought that working outdoors was a good thing.

He went on in that vein for 10 or 15 minutes, getting slightly more comfortable with the conversation himself, but leaving me increasingly puzzled.  His discomfiture was entirely at odds with the innocence of our actual conversation.  But at some point, it suddenly clicked for me, and I realized he was trying to ask me if I was interested in taking over the farm.  In my selfish youth, it never once occurred to me that he might have an interest in that.

From my vantage point now, over forty years later, it's easy for me to imagine why my dad would want to have that conversation.  I certainly would not have looked to him like a particularly hopeful candidate for inheriting the farm, but I must have at least looked like a possibility.  I don't know what he imagined my interest would be –  he knew of my interests in science and technology, and he most definitely knew how much I detested hard physical work.  But he also knew how much I loved nature, and that I shared much of his appreciation for the beauty of plants.  I can imagine that he was hopeful I'd have some interest.

Back then, though, my response was entirely self-centered and ungentle: I said “No way!”, or words to that effect, and forcefully, too.  That was the end of our conversation.

The subject rose just twice more between us.

The second time was on our trip together through Colorado in 1975.  I had been in the US Navy for several years at that point, and was looking forward to getting out in just a couple years.  His business was then in transition, and it was clear by then that none of my siblings were interested in taking over the business from him.  So, this time much more directly, my dad raised the subject with me again.  The moment he chose was when we were both sitting on a boulder high up on a mountain valley side, overlooking a waterfall surrounded by wildflowers (this might well have been in Yankee Boy Basin in the San Juan Mountains), with a gorgeous blue sky overhead.  A light breeze carried the scents of the wildflowers to us, along with the roar of the waterfall.  Butterflies flitted all around us.  There wasn't a soul in sight; we had this idyllic scene to ourselves, while we talked about his future.

I learned several things in that conversation.  One was that my dad had accepted my choice to not be a farmer, nurseryman, or horticulturist.  I also learned that he faulted himself for this, to some extent – I tried very hard to dissuade him of this.  He had the notion that he had somehow failed to nurture a sense of the worth of farming in me.  That certainly wasn't true – there were plenty of careers I thought were eminently worthy, but that I had no interest in.  Farming was just one on a long list of such careers.  Then my dad started rambling a bit about what the future of his nursery business held, and I realized that he was fearful that it would fail entirely – the business was changing, and despite the large population increases around him, the market for the kinds of services and plants he could offer appeared to be shrinking.  He was, I realized, genuinely fearful about what the future held for him.  He talked about how he had never managed to save anything, and he worried about what might happen to my mom.

This was all quite shocking to me.  At that time I knew next to nothing about business (some would argue I'm still in that boat :).  It had never occurred to me before that my father's business could fail.  Obviously, though, it had occurred to him.

After that introduction, my dad asked me if I still felt the same way about being involved with the nursery business.  He said that he recognized that it was a big risk, but he also thought that with my help, we might be able to change it in some way that would make it more successful.

This time, my response was a bit more thoughtful than the one I'd had 6 or 7 years earlier.  If anything, I was even more interested in science and technology than before – and I certainly hadn't lost my aversion to hard physical work.  This time, though, I took the time to talk about all that with my dad.  It turned out to be a easy conversation, and I think it was a big relief for him to be able to talk it out with me.  We ended up talking for a couple of hours, up there on that rock.  When we were all done, my dad thanked me for helping him understand what my plans were.  He was disappointed that I wasn't interested in taking over the farm, but not critical about it at all.

That is, in fact, the one thing that jumps out at me now about my dad's reaction to my disinterest in taking over his business: he was never critical, never bitter.  Not once did he ever try to change my mind.  I never heard him even wish that things were otherwise.  He simply accepted it, smiled, and moved on.

We had one last conversation about this subject, years later, and that conversation had a very different nature.  We were again on one of our trips together (I can't recall which one, but I think it was in the late '90s).  I remember being in a cabin alone with him, fireplace roaring, and my dad said that he was now very glad that I had made the choice, all those years ago, to pursue my own career.  He rambled on for quite a long time about all the things that had happened to his own business, the inevitability of it all, the changes in what people wanted in landscaping, and how the farm was likely going to be sold (whether or not I'd been involved).  Then he said some very nice things about what I'd accomplished, and made it plain that he thought my career choices had been good ones.  My dad said he was glad that things had turned out the way they had, both for him and for me.

I sure miss that man...