Our son Ezdon was having a slow afternoon at work on Monday, so he stopped by the farm to turn a few wrenches and get some equipment ready for fall. I pretended to help him for a while, but eventually decided I’d contributed enough and headed into the house for a much-needed afternoon coffee.
I’d barely sat down when the front door opened and Ezdon stuck his head in.
“Do you have a donkey for sale?”
Needless to say, I looked back at him in complete puzzlement.
“Why no, I don’t. Why do you ask?” I replied, as if this was a perfectly normal conversation.
“Well, there’s a man out here who says there’s an Ewing with a donkey for sale.”
Now, a man showing up at the farm looking for a donkey we don’t own obviously warrants a chat, so up I got and headed out to the front step.
There stood a man I’d guess was about twenty years my senior.
“Do you have a donkey for sale?” he asked.
“Nope, no donkey. I’ve got some sheep for sale maybe?”
He quickly informed me he already had cattle and had no need for sheep. Fair enough.
Apparently, over morning coffee, a friend of his—who I gather might have been a little more tech savvy—had found a donkey advertised online by someone named Ewing. So naturally, we jumped into action. Phones came out, a few of the usual online places were checked, other Ewings in the area were discussed, but no matter what we tried, the mysterious donkey could not be found.
Eventually, we accepted that the location of said donkey would remain a mystery.
But of course, the conversation couldn’t end there.
I was starting to wonder who this fellow was and, more importantly, why he seemed to know exactly where the Ewing farm was in the first place.
Before I got around to asking, he looked at the house and said, “Barry built this house, right?”
“Yes, Barry framed it,” I said.
“I thought so. I dug the foundation hole.”
Well, that changed things.
“Oh really? Wow.”
I looked back at the house, then at him, and thanked him for digging us a good hole. After all, it’s been holding the house up for thirty years, so I suppose credit where credit is due.
We kept talking.
I asked his name. Jerry Craven.
Now I knew where the Cravens were from, only about a ten-minute drive away. I mentioned another Craven I knew, we sorted out that connection, and then Jerry asked me another question.
“Did you know an Ewing named Dean?”
Well yes.
That was my dad.
Then Jerry told me his wife, Marjorie, was related to my mother, Kathryn.
And just like that, this random man who had arrived at our farm looking for a donkey turned out to be connected to us in all sorts of ways. He had dug the hole for the house Anne and I have lived in since 1996. He knew Dad. His wife was related to Mom. And somehow, until that afternoon, I don’t think Jerry and I had ever really had a conversation.
Eventually, after a good visit, Jerry headed off. Still no donkey, unfortunately. I wished him well on the rest of his quest and watched him leave.
But after he was gone, I found myself thinking about one little part of that conversation.
When Jerry asked if I knew Dean Ewing, and I got to say, “Yeah, that was my Dad,” I felt this little bit of pride come over me. I’ve always been proud to be Dean’s son. Dad was well known and well respected around here, and there’s still something pretty special about meeting someone who knew him first, then looks at me and makes that connection.
For just a moment, I wasn’t Farmer Rod or anything else I’ve become over the years. I was Dean's boy.
And truthfully, I’ll never get tired of being known that way.
I suppose, as the years go by, there will be fewer and fewer people who know me first as Dean and Kathryn’s son. That thought sits a little heavy.
But I guess that’s how life moves along. More and more, maybe I’ll become known as Ezdon and Tess’s dad instead.
And I suppose I’m pretty proud to be that guy too.
As for the donkey...
Still no idea where it is.
Farmer Rod