I don’t really keep knick-knacks around my house. But there’s one figurine that I treasure, that has sat on my bookcase for decades. A wooden carved figure of a farmer scattering seeds by hand. It was given to me by a remarkable man named Gene.
Gene and his wife Mary lived in a converted barn on Dutch Settlement Road outside Three Rivers, in Michigan. They called their spread The Hermitage. And for many years, they would host people from the area who wanted to come for a day of retreat or conversation, or just to recharge their batteries in the beauty of the Michigan countryside. That place is still going strong today.
Turning onto their dusty driveway, one would wind down away from the road, past an enigmatic sign nailed to a small tree, that said simply “Return Slowly.” Many times somewhere along that stretch, I would be greeted enthusiastically by Julian, a three-legged Jack Russell terrier. Julian was Gene’s dog, and his steady companion, and was quite the most intuitive animal I have ever met. At times when I was feeling sad, Julian would just jump up and sit quietly on my lap
Every detail in the Hermitage seemed designed to reflect on life, and rest, and the challenge of living well. Books, pictures, surprising lookout spots. Under the stairs I remember sat an old milking machine – Gene joked that it was a reminder of how many people felt milked to death by their work and life. There were also some well-placed pranks. In the bay window on the main floor sat a small wooden model of an outhouse. It was constructed with a mousetrap in the middle, so that if someone tried to open the door to look inside, the entire contraption collapsed with a giant snap! It was a rite of passage at the Hermitage to set off that trap at the quietest time of the day.
Gene and I would meet for an hour whenever I drove up there. He kept my feet on the ground, and never let me take myself too seriously. Perhaps this was best illustrated on the fateful day I still think of simply as THE GAME. That day, I was feeling particularly discouraged, I remember. Perhaps he saw that, because I had just settled into an armchair in his study, with Julian on my lap, when he blurted out: Want to play ping pong?
Looking back later, this should not have surprised me. As a young man in the 1950s and 60s, Gene had led large youth organizations. So of course he would be a ping pong player. What Gene was not counting on however, was that as a young man in the 1980s, I also was part of youth organizations that thrived on ping pong. He had made a terrible mistake. Challenge accepted.
Throwing open the door to an adjoining room, Gene revealed a ping pong table already set up and ready to go. Perhaps too late it occurred to me that maybe this was like the booby-trapped outhouse. Maybe this was a trap he set regularly. What had I just gotten myself into?
Too late to change, I strode to the table and picked up a bat. After a couple of practice rallies, the game was on.
Gene was, shall we say, better than I expected. The ball pinged back and forth across the net, backspin, topspin, dink shots. Every time I thought I had him, he would pull another shot out of his bag of tricks. And before you knew it, he was leading 19-12. Two points away from a resounding victory over a man half his age.
But then something remarkable happened. Perhaps it was just the rust finally shaking off, maybe it was my superior balance, physical stamina and speed of reaction, but my game improved remarkably.
From a losing position, I suddenly became invincible. Gene was unable to handle my serve, his shots went long, his game fell apart, and I held my nerve to reel off nine points in a row. I won in glorious style, 21-19. I left the Hermitage later that day renewed and filled with hope in possibilities.
Gene was a canny old soul. Somehow to win at ping pong that day was exactly what I needed – far more than any motivational passages, Bible verses, or words of understanding.
Years later, when he was clearing out his office, Gene gave me one of his prized possessions from around the barn – that wooden carving of a farmer scattering seeds by hand. The figure of someone willing to give up all that they have, in order for good things to grow. Looking at it today, I am struck that the farmer looks remarkably like Gene playing ping pong, crouched at the table, and ready to throw away every advantage – for someone they love.
Music: "You've Got a Friend in Me" by Randy Newman
