Two deaths in the family last week. They'd been married for 65 years. Both remarkable people.

A bucket hat, faded blue jean
shirt and pants, soft shoes,
you looked like a retired farmer,
comfortable, traveling in your old
Lincoln Town car, but what outsider
would believe you owned
the western half of Ohio?

The hometown folks who greeted you at
lunch time restaurants knew the secret,
but otherwise no one would especially
notice you politely nodding at the old boys hanging out at breakfast
drinking endless coffees,
the ones who finally got well by selling the family farm to developers.

You were a deal maker
and a deal breaker;
a student of human nature,
who read eyes and handshakes
easily as a newspaper.
A cheerful toiler who rose at 5
for the commodity reports, a loner
who learned late to love computers.

Your father left a legacy
you built into a fortune.
Your family had history,
windows in the Catholic church set there by lace curtain grandfathers.
Business was in your genes;
gold grew in your hands, like Midas.

You were a vet, had a color guard
at the funeral, church
full to overflowing,
but did they know about
the Black-Seeded Simpson you planted
for summer suppers?
Had they seen you gently lift earth
to pick the tenderest baby spuds,
leaving the rest to grow?

We’ll have shots of Green Stripe—
a little water, a little ice--
in your honor, Sir!
As the westering sun gilds horizon fields of soy and corn,
and those “god-damned" Canadas
fly a close formation,
big feet splayed for a splash-down landing in the farm pond
just below the house.