Dear Reader,
This morning, I attended my first-ever farm equipment auction—not as a buyer, but as a son.
My family and I stood in Logan Ag’s anhydrous lot lined with tractors, wagons, and one particularly special 30-year-old combine—the very one my deceased farmer father used to harvest corn. We didn’t come to buy; we came to watch, to remember, and to let go.
What follows isn’t my usual newsletter fare; rather, it’s a personal reflection on something we all eventually face: letting go of things that aren’t just things.
The day was practical by nature, but the experience carried far more weight than dollars and cents could capture. I hope it speaks to you.
Enjoy,
Craig
PS: I’ll be back next Friday with my normal news and culture commentary post.
The Weight of an Empty Seat
“Son, I’m just sorry they’re just memories for you now”
—John Mellencamp in “Rain on the Scarecrow”
Thankfully, today’s equipment auction didn’t carry the desperation of John Mellencamp’s “Rain on the Scarecrow” from 1985, but there was a definite weight to the morning. My family and I were the only ones who brought lawn chairs, as if we were there to watch a small-town sporting event since we weren’t buying anything.
The trucks, tractors, and combines sat in neat rows like soldiers on inspection—engines cold but clean, exteriors hosed off to shine in the morning sun. Diesel fumes and dust hung in the air. Men in seed corn hats kicked tires, checked hydraulics, and ran calloused hands along fenders. Rest assured they were there looking for something; farmers don’t give up half a Friday to just stand around randomly thrifting.
The auctioneer worked from the back of a pickup fitted with loudspeakers, his assistants flanking him like lieutenants. His voice cracked sharp and rhythmic through the static, rolling numbers into a kind of chant. The crowd shuffled forward as he stopped in front of each piece for sale. Hands went up. A bid was won. The bidder number and price were recorded. The truck rolled on.
Nobody looked at each other too long. Everyone knew why they were there, but nobody wanted to say it out loud: a neighbor getting too old, a death, a foreclosure. Sometimes, all three.
It was a good turnout, with decent weather and a steady breeze. Those helped, but they only went so far in making it a successful sale day for us. True to form, Dad’s name still carried weight—he was known as a man who took care of his land and his machines. By God’s grace and our family’s hard work, the land is not going anywhere, but today was the day to part with the tools of Dad’s trade. More than a few men seemed to honor him with their bids.
I wondered if he would have cared who bought the pieces of his fleet. Maybe, maybe not. Dad never chased the newest piece of machinery (though he always knew who had what). But I confess I felt a pang watching strangers climb into cabs of machines that were once Dunham property, adjust the seats, and get ready to drive away.
When the auctioneer came to our 30-year-old John Deere combine—still looking as sharp as any newer unit—my breath caught. I could see Dad in the cab, leaning forward with his cap low, hands steady on the wheel, eyes scanning the rows ahead. I could see him glancing back at the grain cart, then toward me—a young boy on the edge of the field, waving and hoping he’d stop long enough to throw open the cab door so I could climb up for the next round’s ride.
The bidding started. I wanted the price to go high—not for the money nor to prove its worth as a machine, but as a worthy memorial to my father. It sold quickly, and the man who won it slapped its side like you’d pat an old dog. He was a long-time friend of our family, and my mother—who was attending her first equipment auction and ever the gracious spirit—went over to thank him with a hug. We were glad our old combine, like an old dog, was going to a good home.
Strangely (or not), letting go of farm equipment is like letting go of a father—it’s difficult. But it wasn’t just machinery we sold today; it was the tangible evidence of decades of my father’s work, faithfulness, and care. Once again, Dad provided.
Most of us will never auction off a combine, but all of us will have moments when something ordinary carries extraordinary meaning—and we’ll have to let it go. When that day comes, may we do so in honor of the one who used it, for the sake of the lives it touched, and thankful to the God who both gives and takes away.
“The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away;
blessed be the name of the LORD.”
—Job 1:21
Thanks, all, for your comments and affirmations. This was a post that seemed to resonate with a lot of folks and I appreciate everyone's patience with something a little off the beaten path from what I normally write here.
So difficult to lose your dad. Love to the whole family