As a fellow columnist recently observed, the lineup of opinion and feature writers that NEW Media has assembled is impressive. I’m proud to be a part of this group which covers such a wide variety of interesting topics that readers tell me they turn to the columns first. Count me among them.
While I may disagree with views expressed by a particular writer, I know I can rely on a high level of quality of the writing itself. I abhor sloppy copy that comes from writers who just spew words onto a page and mail it in. If I’m asking people to spend precious minutes reading a piece I’ve written, I should respect them enough to do the serious revising and editing critical to producing quality work.
In my career as an English teacher, I would have students begin a writing assignment in class because getting started is the hardest part. Some would quickly dash off a few lines, scurry up to my desk, plop down some scribbled sentences and ask, “Is this good enough?” My standard response: “If you have to ask me that, then we both know the answer is no.” Good enough is never good enough. Effective writers don’t call a piece finished until they’ve reworked it until it’s first-rate. So never turn in any assignment until it’s your very best.
Circling back, I want to go on record saying my favorite NEW Media columnist is Kay Reminger. I admire and appreciate her worldview, which often coincides with my approach to life. I surmise that we are both hard workers, feisty females who put a premium on doing instead of talking, though heaven knows I do enough of that. I like to think we are both loyal wives, loving mothers/grandmothers, faithful friends, capable cooks and all-around do-gooders who are trying to live meaningful lives by improving our little corners of the world.
Kay’s recent column about working around the farm with her husband was one of my favorites. It reminded me that, unlike her, I never mastered the art of driving a tractor. Truth is, I didn’t have a chance. Let me explain by taking you back to a beautiful spring Saturday in 1958 when my father said: “Get ready; we’re going out to pick stones.”
My 12-year-old self groaned. That’s one of the worst jobs on the farm. It meant walking along a designated area to gather up rocks that had surfaced during tilling, throw them into a 5-gallon bucket and carry as much as I could manage over to be dumped onto a hay wagon.
After a couple of hours of back-breaking labor, I was sweaty, dirty and exhausted. Looking over to the wagon, I caught sight of my brother John, sitting comfortably aboard the tractor. How was it that he got to sit and drive? “It’s not fair, Dad,” I whined. “His job’s a lot easier.” John smugly grinned at me, which made me livid.
After a steady stream of complaining, Dad decided he’d heard enough and directed John to change places with me. Now I was the one who smirked. I climbed into the seat and got ready to enjoy what looked like an easy task. Dad gave me a quick lesson in operating the clutch, shift, accelerator, and brake. Ready? “Of course,” I said, rolling my eyes. Anybody can do this.
After a few feeble attempts, I did get the tractor going. Actually, it was pitching forward with a bucking motion that scared the heck out of everybody, including me. Dad tried again to tell me what to do, but I was so pathetically uncoordinated that I simply could not figure it out. Losing patience, Dad ordered me off the beast before I’d “grind enough gear to make a good dinner.” That humiliating episode became my first and final attempt at driving a tractor. Kudos to Kay for learning how to operate farm machinery with skill and dexterity.
In case you’re wondering, I’m not writing this because Kay and I are friends. In fact, I’ve never met her, but by reading her column, I think I’ve come to know her better than I might if she was a neighbor. I realize her life might easily have been mine, but as Robert Frost said: “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference.”
My difference-maker was a college scholarship to Mount Mary in Milwaukee that led to a teaching career and a blessed life I never imagined possible when I was a girl. Ever hear the saying that your eyes are the window to your soul? Yes, and your words are the window to your heart. Thanks, Kay, for sharing your heart with us. Say, how about we do lunch sometime?
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.
Categories
