Old Frank and ‘Toughening in’ to Work on the Farm

“I just need to toughen in!”

So said Old Frank, my new landlord at the time. I was 21 in the winter when I rented a small dairy farm, sight unseen, from Old Frank. 

Old Frank was several years past his 80th birthday when he and I first crossed paths in a waiting room. Frank was garrulous and gregarious and soon shared with me that he had a problem: The tenant of a dairy that he owned was exiting the farming business. 

“I’m too old to farm anymore,” Frank lamented. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that place!”

I had been striving desperately to get a toehold in farming, so I quickly suggested that perhaps I could rent the place. We hashed out the particulars and soon shook hands on the deal.

My first impression upon seeing the farm’s outbuildings was, “Oh my gosh, I’ve rented a junkpile!”

But at least Old Frank was a realist. He knew that the farm could, at best, be described as “30 seconds away from being condemned.” 

“I’m going to fix this place up!” Old Frank declared when he took me on a tour of the rundown farmstead. “I’ll turn this farm into a showplace!”

Old Frank was true to his word, although his idea of a showplace was vastly different than what one might see in a farming magazine.

Frank initiated the farm’s transformation into a showcase by attending auctions where he purchased coffee cans full of rusted and bent nails along with random chunks of sheet metal. As he straightened nails with a clawhammer on the top of a fencepost, Old Frank would wink at me and say, “There’s nothing wrong with these nails. They’ve only been used once!”

Old Frank came out to the farm nearly every day the following spring to tack on some used tin here or slap on a chunk of old lumber there. I would lend a hand if I wasn’t busy with chores or fieldwork. Frank would frequently pause from his labors, rub the small of his back, and utter the oft-repeated comment that he just needed to “toughen in.”

Old Frank was a braggadocious guy who seemed to enjoy nothing better than to regale me with stories of how he had amassed his wealth. Some of his tales seemed fairly tall, so I took them with a pound of salt.

The theme that emerged from Frank’s stories was his stinginess; he was proud to have earned a reputation for being tighter than the bark on a tree. This explained why he was using half-full cans of paint purchased at auctions for his farm renovation project.

I had been taught to respect my elders, so I listened respectfully as Old Frank retold the same series of stories for the umpteenth time. I’d heard his yarns so many times, I could have told them myself. But being young and probably in the best physical condition of my life, I neither understood nor had empathy for Old Frank’s remark about toughening in.

After a brutal series of cancer treatments last summer, and a winter spent recovering, I was eager to get back into the swing of things this spring. Lacing up my work boots and pulling on a pair of leather gloves elicited a satisfying sense of muscle memory. It was like an old workhorse feeling the familiar caress of the harness.

I’ve thrown myself into several undertakings, including a small woodworking project. That particular task has proven to be an exercise in frustration thanks to my slapdash attention to details.

My parents’ farmhouse needed some paint and had minor shingle damage that was begging for repair. And then there’s all the normal stuff, such as spraying the weeds on two farmsteads, tending the garden, lawncare, and taking our dog, Bella, for her daily walks.

At the close of the days I’d spent climbing ladders and scaffolding, and scrabbling across a roof that’s nearly as steep as El Capitán, I had a deep understanding and much empathy for Old Frank’s sentiment about needing to toughen in. Muscles that I didn’t even know I have complained loudly regarding their mistreatment, and some of my joints creaked like the Tinman after a monsoon.

But it’s gratifying to be back in the harness; to perform good, honest labor; and stand back and simply enjoy the results. My work boots are worse for the wear, and I’ve worn a hole in one of my leather gloves.

In other words, it’s been a wonderful spring and early summer. I should be thoroughly toughened in by the time winter arrives.

Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.