He had a bit of George Bailey
In him, my dad.
Small-town guy, tied down
In a way.
Instead of a savings and loan, though,
Dad had a farm.
The land was our family’s
For generations.
Dad populated it with
Hay and tobacco and cows
And sweat.
But unlike George Bailey,
My dad successfully shook off
The dust of his hometown.
My stilltown.
He traveled to all seven continents,
Two only for a little while
Just to say he did.
Dad died eleven years ago,
And, with my sisters, I sold the family farm.
Am I, then, a sell-out …
A thankless ingrate?
I just know I wasn’t a farmer.
But a traveler, yes
I am.