Now tired, worn, and ignored, they stand as a silent witness to the hard work of others long ago.
I remember as a child waiting anxiously for those special weekends to roll around. Those Saturdays where my dad, brother, and I would get up early, and together, head out to my uncle’s farm, where we would spend the day putting in new fence posts. Replacing those my uncle had pulled out earlier in the week because of rotting.
The morning dew would just be lifting as we got to his farm; appearing as smoke rising off the fields, roofs of the sheds, and barns.
It always seemed as if my dad timed our arrival just right, getting us there just as my uncle was loading the tools onto the hay wagon; the posthole diggers, shovels, tamper, and pry bar. Being sure to lay them just in front of all of those rocks, which had me wondering, “What were the rocks for?”
My dad and brother would take the truck to the field while I rode on the tractor, with my uncle standing between the seat and that green fender, leaning against it as we rode.
Once in the field and along the fence row, my dad, who had apparently done this task before, grabbed the posthole digger and began marking out the location of the holes, before handing them off to me. After that, he gave us step-by-step instructions on how to keep the hole going straight and big enough for not just the posts but also some of the rocks.
My brother and I would take turns on the post-hole diggers until my uncle would say, “Hold steady there, boys, let’s check our depth” before telling us to dig some more out. Often requiring that we use the pry bar to force out even bigger rocks, from the sides or top of the hole, before proceeding.
By mid-morning, I was getting pretty good at sighting the correct depth and using my brother as a vertical straightedge, as to whether our hole was going straight.
Thinking we had a pretty good handle on this, after four holes, we were getting ready for lunch; having eaten my aunt’s cooking in the past and knowing of how good of a cook she was. But my uncle and dad had other ideas. They wanted to get some posts to stand in place before lunch. This was where we learned a whole new trick; one that even yet today, I use when wanting to put a post in permanently.
While my brother and I were digging, my dad and uncle had been laying posts out where my uncle wanted them and my dad had made his marks.
But with this new trick, all four of us needed to work together; my dad would pick up the post and drop it into the hole, holding it steady as my uncle held a level up to it; while directing my brother and me in backfilling the hole with the dirt, we’d sent all morning removing. But it wasn’t as easy as just filling it up. No, sir. This is where we found out the reason for the rocks. We had been moving along with us.
After we had backfilled about one-third of the hole with the dirt, we had dug out earlier, we would wipe the sweat from our faces again, and then pack the fieldstone or rocks in around the post. Before using the wooden tamper to push them down into the hole, wedging rock against rock; tightening the post in the ground with each layer until filling another third of the hole in.
With the last third to go, we shoveled in the remaining dirt, piling it up along the side of the post, before once again tamping it all tight.
Standing back after the fourth post and looking down the straight line of them, and even at my young age, I felt proud; while at the same moment tired and hungry. That was just before jumping onto the back of my uncle’s truck with my brother, as my dad drove us all up to the pump, to get cleaned up for lunch and a much-needed break.
The moral of the story is that hard work pays off; standing as a testament long after we’re gone, for others, of what doing something right looks like.
