Family Farm Friday #48: Please Report to the Golf Cart

"Enjoy the little things in life. For one day you may look back and realize they were the big things."

Today I'm actually not chained to my desk like a normal Friday, but instead I am at home for my family's anual show lamb sale! Woo hoo for sheep and family and friends and NO legal research!

How many of you just looked back at the title of this and thought, "What does a golf cart have to do with a show lamb sale?" Stick with me.

As you know if you read the blog regularly, Mr. Franklin was my high school ag teacher, and one of my favorite people in the world. He was like my second father and his family is like family to me. And, you've also read that he passed away in 2009 from Lou Gehrig's disease. When it came time to plan a blog about today, I knew that I wanted to follow up on my post from last year.

In that blog, which is probably one of my favorites that I've written, you read about my very first lamb sale with Mr. Franklin. Today, I thought I'd write about my last.

When Mr. Franklin was diagosed with ALS at Christmastime of 2008, he began to lose the use of his feet and legs. And into the story enters the golf cart. His preacher brought it out to him to use so that he could still get around the farm and go check on things at the barn. When I was home in March a few weeks before the sale, he insisted that we go for a ride to check out the lambs. So we loaded up onto the golf cart and away we went to the barn. By the time we were done, I think we had rammed into about every gate and stuck about every bit of manure possible onto the tires of the golf cart. I remember thinking that this poor preacher had no idea what he had gotten his golf cart into.

Because I knew that his legs were getting worse pretty quickly, I wasn't sure how well he would be able to get around at the sale a couple of weeks later. I didn't have to wonder long, because early that morning I looked out the barn doors and see a golf cart zooming off of a trailer into the barn. Mr. Franklin had arrived.

He was all over the barn that day in his little golf cart. And someone gave him a megaphone (is that what it's called? You know, like a microphone thing?). This supplied an endless commentary of entertainment for the crowd. And at one point, he had a question for my dad and everyone hears, "[My Dad's name] please report to the golf cart." As out of place as that statement seemed, no one blinked or asked any questions....my dad just beelined it for the golf cart like it was his turn to tee off on 18. After Mr. Franklin died, I remember my dad saying that he would never forget that line being screamed over the megaphone.

Throughout the day, Mr. Franklin's golf cart ran into everything that he could possibly hit. At one point, Little Brother was with him in the cart, when he backed right into the tables where everyone was eating lunch and almost took them out. Another time, I was sitting with him trying to make a sale order when he decided it was time to move and rammed us into the bleachers. Whiplash seemed in my near future. I guess it could have been that he was having a hard time with the pedals. But I know that little man better and I have no doubt in my mind that he thought it was hilarious to have all these mini crashes and to know that no one would tell him anything about it!

You know, I don't remember what sheep we sold that day. I don't remember how much money we made. But I'll never forget that golf cart and the man in the green jacket with his floppy eared cap harassing everyone and crashing into everything in sight. I can't tell you how much I wish that whiplash was something I had to worry about leaving that barn with this year.