𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭

When in college, I went to a barber shop in a small town outside the area where the university was.  There, tacked on the wall, was a handwritten help wanted sign on an index card. It said, “local farmer needs help baling hay”.  Next to that written request was a disclaimer in parentheses: (not easy work).   They had me at not easy.   The farmer answered the phone when I called.  He asked if I had baled hay before and, although I hadn’t, I told him I felt confident I could do it.  There was a pause on the other end of the line.  “Ok, be here at 6:30 Saturday morning”. 

As promised, I arrived at 6:30 and walked over to the farmer. I introduced myself and reminded him that we spoke on the phone about baling hay. His name was Basil.  Basil gave me the once-over and asked where I was from. I told him I was from Chicago, and could tell that it didn’t seem to give Basil a lot of confidence in my would-be hay baling skills.   He motioned for me to head over to the tractor where two other young men in John Deere hats were waiting.   They were from local farms, and I clearly hadn’t gotten the memo about appropriate farm attire.

Basil came over and handed each one of us a pair of gloves and two big hooks with wooden handles for grips.  The tractor was pulling the machine that would bind the hay into a bale.  The hay wagon in the back was attached to the baling machine. Basil said, “Watch these boys and do what they do”.  Sounded easy enough to me. The three of us climbed on the wagon as Basil boarded the tractor.  With one big lurch we were off and the forward momentum nearly sent me back on my ass. The two other guys chuckled since they were prepared for this.  They told me that we would each take turns once the bale of hay makes its way from the conveyor belt on the baler to the wagon.  The intention was to grab the baled hay with the hook and drag it to the rear of the wagon.   Since we each took turns, there was a good deal of time before I was the next one to drag the bale to the back of the wagon.   After we had completed a row that was 5-6 bales high, we would start another stack.   I thought to myself, this is a piece of cake.  Not sure why Basil noted (Not Easy) on his ad.  I was pleased at the ease with which things were going, especially since I’d gotten the side-eye from the wily farmer when I told him where I was from.

The sun was beating down this late June day, and the Chicago guy, who did NOT own a John Deere hat, suddenly wished he did.  The hay dust and sweat were everywhere; in my eyes, nose, ears, and seemed to penetrate all my clothes.  As we got about halfway done with loading the wagon, I could see where this was going and didn’t like it one bit.   The distance from the baler to where we had to stack the hay got shorter and shorter.  The turn in the rotation came quicker, and we had to build stairs with the hay bales to get to the top of each stack.  Not an issue when you have 30 feet of runway, but we got down to 10 feet from where we dragged the bale up the hay stairs, stacked it, and came down to take a few breaths before immediately turning around to do it again.  My arms, legs, and back were toast under the barrage of all the heavy lifting. Occasionally, Basil would turn around to look back; I was sure to see if I had jumped off the wagon in defeat.   I was praying for the tractor to run out of gas.  The Chicago gods did not answer.  Finally, the baler spat out its last bale since we had nowhere else to stand or stack. 

Legs trembling, I jumped off the wagon as it came to a halt.  Basil motioned over to where his wife had set up a table.  As we approached, I noticed two large orange coolers with spigots at the bottom.  Next to the coolers was a big bowl with ice in it and several cans of Pepsi.  I was covered in hay dust that stuck to me everywhere, with my sweat acting as the glue.  The back of my throat was coated as well, making it hard to swallow.  Gleefully, Basil informed us, “You have three options: Pepsi, Country Time lemonade, and water”.  Not Chicago water. Sulfur-smelling well water.  I was familiar with well water from my grandparents' house in Central Indiana.  Not my drink of choice, to be sure, but something happened to me as I walked through the valley of the shadow of death on the farm that day.  I decided to fear no evil. As I considered the Pepsi option, all I saw was a can of sweet, thick syrup, which made me want to gag. The thought of the country time lemonade nearly had the same effect.  I went all-in for the well water.   Despite my Central Indiana experience, I opened the valve and filled my mason jar to the top.  I pulled it up to my nose, waiting for the sulfur smell, but nothing. Maybe it was all the hay dust clogging my nostrils. It touched my lips, ice cold, and I had downed half the jar before the smell could hit me.  It had a sweet taste, and before I knew it, the jar was empty.  If only I could have been as bold to pick up the cooler and douse myself, Super Bowl win style, that would have been the coup de gras.  The privilege of water from the ground on that hot June day, where I was nearly brought to my knees from exhaustion, had to have a deeper meaning.

A few summers ago, while living in Michigan City, I took one of my normal bike rides to Tabor Hill Winery.  It was 36 miles from Michigan City.  I like to ride to Three Oaks, which is 20 miles, fill up with Gatorade from the gas station, and continue the next leg of the 16 miles to Tabor Hill.  My lovely wife would meet me there, then drive us home after a few sangrias on the terrace.   This was a particularly hot summer day, with the temperature reaching 97 degrees with quite a bit of humidity. The first part of the ride to Three Oaks felt like 40 miles.  I drank 32 ounces of Gatorade and took another 32 ounces in my two water bottles.

About 8 miles into the balance of my 16 miles, something became apparent.  I could not get cooled off.  Normally, the air moving across your body as you ride will cool you as the air hits the sweat pouring out of your body.  The air was so thick and hot that it had the opposite effect.  I got hotter as I rode.   I found myself at an intersection, where three corners were just open fields as far as I could see. On one corner sat an old farmhouse with a big oak tree in the front yard.  I needed to get out of the sun and get cooled off, so I got off my bike and sat under the oak tree.   As I sat there with my back against the tree, eyes closed, I could feel myself starting to recover. I heard footsteps approaching and someone asked, “Are you ok”? “Yes, sir, I got overheated and just needed a few minutes”.   “Take your time, son, and if you need anything, just come up to the house”. That old farmer’s comments were almost as comforting as that shade.

These days, it seems we are living in an era where we are trying everything we can to avoid discomfort. Heated steering wheels, consoles with screens for streaming movies, and massaging seats make living rooms out of our cars.  I wouldn’t be surprised if, pretty soon, sedans come equipped with a mini fridge.

God forbid the water in your shower is 3-5 degrees on the cool side, and you leave a scorching review for your Airbnb host.  Does this prepare you for a real moment of discomfort?  What’s stuck with me from these two moments of honest discomfort was that sweet relief was as simple as some water from the ground and an old Oak tree.  I could not imagine, in either of these moments, greater relief than what was simply provided in nature.  Water that made its way from the skies, traveled through the Earth, and was collected in a well that was pumped on a day I happened to be in the same spot and needed a drink. A seed that grew into a mighty oak, with a collection of leaves that made a canopy and provided shelter from the sun on a day that I happened to be in the same spot and needed to be sheltered.  Being buried in and surrounded by comfort will not create a happy ending for anyone.   Discomfort in all of its many forms will come for you, and I just hope you know discomfort and the blessing it can be.

Comments from Readers on my last piece.

Well said, my friend

We in the legal profession are seeing challenges keeping our Bar Associations vibrant. When I was a young lawyer it was a given – we joined, we went, we engaged, and we enjoyed it together. I will strive to do as you are.

Cheers. JM