Finding a Hayseed

I have fond memories of Chris Boyce from the class of 1979. Someone nicknamed him Hayseed, because he attended a one-room rural school until showing up as a freshman at our high school in Big Sandy, Montana.  

While Chris was an all around gentleman and solid student, he was not going to graduate unless he cut his hair. (Our school had rules!) The other 41 seniors were getting nervous as we headed off on our Senior Sneak Trip with our long-haired classmate. This three-day excursion was our last time to all hang out as a family. I managed to convince Chris to let me cut his hair with a pair of kitchen scissors, although I lacked the required skill. While I clipped his black, wavy locks, dropping them on the floor of the Flathead Lake Lodge, Chris chuckled and blushed, because he was surrounded by classmates cheering him on. Maybe Chris didn’t join us until he was age 14, but he was one of us, we liked him very much, and we were bringing him over the finish line. 

Truthfully, we were all Hayseeds, which should have been a source of pride. I salute all farm kids from every state who are self assured enough to take full credit their agrarian roots. 

I’m not making excuses, but a farm kid going off to college has to make adjustments. I recall my first day at University of Montana when new acquaintances talked about going to a movie theater in downtown Missoula. I asked if they would like to drive in my outfit. “What’s an outfit?” they all sang out. At that moment I pondered how much of my culture would need to stay at the farm. 

I left too much at the farm. I traveled far away from my Hayseed roots. I moved to Reno, a big town by my standards. I amassed a collection of JCrew suits and Italian shoes to go with my six figure salary and frequent public engagements, which I drove to in a BMW. I mock myself now, but I was always yearning for the farm life and the opportunity to interact with nature on a daily basis.

I worked as a communications executive in highly orchestrated industries like construction and health care. I collaborated with lots of great people, whom I respect so much. But I felt unshackled when I retired a year ago after turning 60. 

I finally get to be a Hayseed again. I wake up every day, growing and designing flowers. I also have a shoe mausoleum. New career. New kicks.

Kicks not fit for farming. AKA Sheila’s Shoe Mausoleum