Memories are funny things. They’re not really like a transcript, photograph, or video in terms of accuracy (though they sometimes might feel that way). As I understand it, they can be strongly influenced by the emotions we experienced at the time of their formation, as well as our senses. Memories can also change as we age - in detail and in what’s emphasized. We may lose details or even fill in missing details over time. And memories of people - their initial formation and any subsequent changes - may be influenced by how we feel about those people. The memories I share here of my dad, James J. Harmon, while likely not completely accurate, certainly reflect how I feel about him.
One of my earliest memories of dad is on my grandparent’s farm during harvest (near Penalosa, KS). I’m riding with him in our old Gleaner combine (pictured above). I think it was a model G, built in the 60’s, with a not-so luxurious cab. I would have been 3 or 4, alternating between sitting next to him on his old metal tool box or leaning against the cab’s glass watching the great grey beast slowly devour the waving wheat heads. I was mesmerized by the machinery and hypnotized by the rotating reel. And as the sun set, with slumber hastened on by the hypnotic reel, I would curl up, rest my head on the tool box, and drift off into dreamland.
At least that’s how dad’s described it to me, supported by the vague recollections of early childhood. What I can more clearly picture in my head was dad gently picking me up in his arms and handing me off to grandma from the platform outside the cab. Cutting wasn’t done for the day, but it was time for me to head back to the house and go to bed. Not that I wanted to leave, but I was too groggy to put up much of a fight. I loved harvest every year, and getting to experience it with dad was a big part of why I loved it.
Fast forward a few years to when I was about 9 or 10. By then we had two Ford 8000 tractors, no cabs but at least one had a canopy for some shade. I think one was a ‘68 and the other a ‘72. I would often ride on the tractors with dad or grandpa, standing between the seat and the fender. One afternoon after discing (or disking if you prefer) a large section of field, instead of moving the tractor to the next area to work and walking back the half mile or so to get the pickup, dad decided I was ready to follow behind him in it.
He had previously given me some “lessons” on driving our old ‘67 Chevy pickup (also pictured above). It was an automatic with the gear shift on the steering column, and dad had taught me about the differences between automatic and standard transmissions, how the gear shift worked, how to stick the key in and turn the ignition on, break vs. accelerator pedals, etc. At that moment, I probably wished I had paid more attention. I was excited, but also remember being pretty nervous.
However, dad didn’t seem concerned. He went through all of the instructions again. Told me to take it slow and not follow too close. Even sitting on the edge of the seat, I could barely see over the steering wheel. I remember him looking back at me as we slowly made our way to the next section of field to work, a reassuring smile on his face. At the end of our “trip” I remember feeling exhilarated, both from the accomplishment and dad trusting me to get it done. I wish I could remember what he said to me afterwards, but it was probably something along the lines of “I knew you could do it” as he rubbed my head or squeezed my shoulder.
Several years later at about 12 or 13 I would start working ground and planting myself. My “training wheels” consisted of an old iron wheeled John Deere seed planter (similar to this image); better to start me out on something with a little less monetary value and impact on operations if damaged. I was tasked with planting some sudan grass (at least that’s what I think it was) about a quarter mile from grandpa and grandma’s farmhouse. When I ran out of seed, I’d just drive the tractor and planter back up to the shop and load the planter up again.
After multiple trips and beginning to feel more comfortable and probably a little too cocky, I again ran out of seed. As I got to the long drive of the farmhouse I slowed down to turn in, but this time didn’t make as wide of a turn as needed. I looked back over my shoulder in time to see the left metal wheel of the planter catch the iron post and rip it and it’s axle clean out of the planter. Far too late I slammed on the clutch and the break, watching the left end of the planter hit the ground and drag a bit before coming to a stop. With great shame and dread I lowered my head to the steering wheel, likely cursing the day I was born.
When I looked up, I saw dad walking down the hill from the shop towards me, shaking his head. As he got closer, though, I didn’t see an angry or disgusted face. There was just a small smile and a knowing look in his eyes. I can’t remember if he said this immediately or shortly there after, but it was delivered with wry smile and a shoulder squeeze - “And that’s why we gave you the old planter to learn on.”
Then dad helped me clean up my mess. We took the wheel off the axle, hauled the axle to a mechanics shop in Kingman, KS where we got it “mostly” straightened, hauled it back, and then reassembled the planter. I was back to planting early the next day, though that old planter always had a slight wobble to it after that. Dad’s lesson has stuck with me over the years. Whenever I’m towing something I think back to that day, and I’ve never made too short of a turn since.
When I was 15 or 16, I would sometimes attend our away high school basketball games, riding on the student pep squad bus. After returning from one of these Friday games, I climbed into my dad’s pickup at the high school and headed home. But as I got to our driveway and started to turn in, I hit a patch of ice and slid straight for the ditch, partly as a result of driving a little too fast. Miraculously, the truck slid right between the mailbox and the culvert, coming to a stop squarely in the ditch beside the main road leading into town.
I likely sighed as I rested my head on the steering wheel. When I finally raised my head and opened the door to step out, what do you know, the bus with the players drove by - the universe apparently needed to balance the miracle threading of the needle with a bit of teenage humiliation. The bus driver, likely succumbing to the hoots and hollering of his passengers who were waving at me very enthusiastically, honked as the bus passed. It was a nice touch. And at that point I’m sure I cursed the day I was born.
Dad had also exited the house in time to see the bus drive by. I could tell he was irritated, but he didn’t say much, knowing the amount of razzing I would endure come Monday at school. The miracle threading also likely muted his reaction. The pickup wasn’t that stuck and we easily extricated it from the ditch. I don’t remember for sure if he put his hand on my shoulder as we went back inside, but it would have been typical for him. He knew I understood how lucky I was to have threaded that needle, and even more lucky to have avoided any potential on-coming traffic. The Monday razzing (and oh, was there razzing) would cement the lesson.
Not that dad didn’t ever loose his temper or lack patience. In fact, patience wasn’t exactly one of his best attributes, though not when it came to his kids or teaching in general. What he didn’t like was having to wait very long for anything, or deal with complications that inevitably arose when working on machinery and equipment. His frustrations with himself and the machinery he was working on would sometimes boil over into cursing fits. Many times I remember grandpa gently advising him to let it go, not be so hard on himself, and that we’d solve whatever the problem was.
I was 16 or 17 the one time he really let loose on me. Some of the ground that we leased we not-so-affectionately labeled the swamp. It was low-lying, and if it had been raining a lot it would become a muddy, swampy, sticky mess. And for one to two weeks after heavy rains it was deceptive like quick sand, looking invitingly dry on top while still being a muddy hell below. I don’t remember if I was discing or chiseling, but dad had given me explicit instructions on what areas of the swampy field to work and which areas to avoid - we were in one of those two week periods post heavy rains.
Well, being 16 or 17, I had to push the envelope - getting as close to the area I was supposed to avoid as possible. “This pass didn’t seem to be a problem. Let’s do another pass half a tractor width closer,” I’d think to myself. And I’d repeat that a few more times, until one pass without warning the earth itself seemed to drop away from the back tires of the tracker, immediately burying it up to the rear axle. Many expletives at that point likely flew from my lips, and I’m sure I again put my head on the steering wheel.
At some point I headed to the pickup to commence the drive of shame and retrieve dad. When we got back, after dad saw how buried the tractor was, how I had deliberately ignored his direction on what areas to work, Mt. James erupted. Multiple expletives. We’re going to have to get the other tractor to pull this one out, if that’s even going to be possible. It’s going to cost us at least a day’s worth of work from all three of us to get it out. Why didn’t you listen to what I told you? Multiple expletives. This carried on for a bit, until he finally said, “Let’s get your grandpa and the other tractor.”
By the time we got the other tractor there, dad was starting to cool off, focusing on the task at hand. I believe he’d already started thinking about similar mistakes he’d made at my age, and if not, grandpa was reminding him of them after we got the other tractor there. Dad’s premonition was also correct, the other tractor wasn’t enough and we ended up having to call for a heavy duty tow truck from Kingman to pull the tractor out. It was after 10:00 that night by the time the job was done and the tow truck was heading back to Kingman.
But after all of that dad seemed to view the day as an opportunity for me to learn what to do when you bury a tractor so thoroughly. If it was going to happen, then I had better learn something from it. I also remember a bit of good natured razzing from both him and grandpa. You have a gift there Marcel. Not sure I could have buried the tractor that well even if I tried. And I’m pretty sure dad’s hand was on my shoulder by the end of the day as well.
I’ve made reference to dad teaching. He taught high school math for most of his teaching career, the majority of it spent at Cheney High School, in Cheney, KS (prior to that he briefly taught at Arlington, Rolla, and Lewis, KS). While I know some kids don’t like being taught by their teacher parents, I never had an issue with it. Nor do I think my sisters did, but they would have to verify that themselves. I found my dad to be a pretty good teacher, and it didn’t feel weird to be taught by him in the classroom or to be in the same high school with him in general. I think that’s partly because he was generally well-liked and respected (at least as far as I knew) by students as well as other teachers. Had that not been the case, maybe it would have felt weirder or less comfortable.
In addition to teaching math, he developed the first computer programming classes at Cheney back in the 80’s when I was in high school. Dad loved tech and gadgets (at one point I remember him taking a correspondence course in electronics). He bought our first home Apple computer around 1980 and started using it for various aspects of farming, teaching, and personal finances. He also started learning programming and let me dabble in it as well. Whether he initially petitioned for the new class himself or made the decision in conjunction with other teachers and administrators, Dad recognized the importance that the personal computer and computer science would have in the world and subsequently started a programming class at the high school. I think he set up the computer lab and started that first programming class during the ‘84-’85 school year, though maybe it was the year before or after.
For many years dad was also the teacher sponsor for concessions at the home football and basketball games. It wasn’t one of his favorite duties, but I think he enjoyed interacting with the students working concessions. When my younger sister, Chandra, and I were in grade school, we would sometimes “help out” the high school students selling pop, popcorn, and candy. I also remember hanging out with dad as he and the high schoolers would set things up and clean up afterwards. Dad had a retractable key chain he wore on his belt, and while it was with him at the high school throughout my memories up to my own graduation, I remember it most in the context of sponsoring concessions. Him reaching down to stretch out his keys and unlock doors during concession set up and clean up.
And though he was both a farmer and a teacher, with all of the time that both of those required, Dad still managed to be there for my sisters’ and my band and choir performances, plays, baton twirling, football and volleyball games, track meets, etc. He’s always been there for my sisters and I, throughout our lives.
Dad’s greatest tragedy (and likely mom’s too), that I’m aware of, was the still born birth of their second child (a daughter), somewhere between one and two years before I was born. It was only after Michelle (my wife) and I had our first child (Connor) that I could start to imagine what that pain must have been like, or what dull ache he and mom still probably felt years later at the thought of her - of a life that never was, that never got to be.
Nor was mom able to be there at the burial, she was still too weak. So dad had to go through that, had to lay their infant daughter in the ground, without mom by his side, though grandpa and grandma as well as other family members were there surrounding him. I can imagine them standing there, with grandpa’s hand on dad’s shoulder as dad held my older sister Kim’s hand (or held her). Though as I’m typing this I’m not sure if Kim was there, but I assume so.
I’ve wondered how that might have changed dad (and mom). It’s hard to imagine going through such an experience without being changed. I’ve never asked Kim if she noticed a difference, though she was pretty young when it happened.
I’ve also wondered how that experience impacted his reaction to almost losing me when I was about 8 or 9. That harvest we were storing some of the wheat in one of our grain bins near the farmhouse. My great uncle Aldene was driving the grain truck and I was riding with him. After backing up to the bin I’d head to the truck bed to mess around in the wheat as it was slowly pouring out into an old tractor tire. From there the wheat would spiral up the auger and into the grain bin. At one point, as my uncle was raising the bed it jumped up higher than he had intended, sending a wave of wheat over me. I tried reaching for the side, but before I knew it, I was completely buried except for my left hand. The last thing I remember before losing consciousness was my uncle grabbing my exposed hand.
My uncle managed to uncover my head in time (spoiler alert), though he had to raise the bed all of the way and fully open each gate. Those first minutes after coming to are a bit of a blur. I know I was coughing pretty violently and could barely stand. At some point I remember seeing my dad’s face, and he had to help me out of the bed. Someone (I think my grandma) had driven over to the field we were cutting in to get him (luckily it was close by). What must that short drive back to the farmhouse have been like for him? Having already lost a child, what kind of panic and dread did he have to fight off? The things our parents do and endure for us. The things my dad has done and endured for me and my sisters.
Dad passed away on the morning of July 4, 2023. For me (and probably my sisters and mom), I imagined the fireworks that evening were heralding the passing of a pretty damn good father and husband. He’d been in and out of the hospital and rehab since February. But after about six months of fighting the good fight, with not much hope left for a meaningful recovery, he was ready to go. We moved him to hospice on June 22. My sisters and I had the privilege and joy of spending a lot of time together with mom and dad over the last few weeks. A lot of reminiscing, crying, and laughing. Dad was able to say goodbye to a lot of friends and family. If you have to go, it’s not a bad way to do so.
My sisters and I, as well as his grandchildren, are certainly part of his legacy. But so are all of his former students (a few of whom actually took care of him while he was in hospice at the Cheney Golden Age Home), the children who received the wooden toys he made in retirement, as well as all of the people he helped out in one way or another over the years. After we’re gone, what’s left on this plane of existence is the sum of our impacts on others over the course of our lives - the chain of actions from one person to another, for good or bad. What’s also left is how we live on in the memories of others. And I’m pretty sure there are a lot of good memories of dad out there in the world.
One of my favorites is from when I was around 17. We were heading back home from the farm. I was driving. At one point dad turned to me and said, “I don’t say this often enough, but I’m really proud of you.” Nothing more than that because nothing more was needed. Simple validation given with love. It’s something I’ve tried to remember as a dad myself - making sure my kids know I’m proud of them, though I too probably don’t say it often enough.
My absolute earliest memory of dad is really just a single, blurred image with a feeling attached to it. I was probably only 3, and I had reached up to the top of the kitchen stove with one of the burners on, burning my right hand in the process. I don’t really remember that part of the story, but either later that day or the next day I had to go with dad while he was at school - I don’t remember why. I simply have an image in my head of standing next to dad as he held on to my left hand while my right hand throbbed in pain. That image is a pretty good symbol for the kind of father he’s been throughout the lives of me and my sisters - always there to provide support no matter what life threw at us.
I’m glad that dad is at peace, but I’ll miss him, sometimes fiercely. However, if I close my eyes, I can imagine - I can almost feel - his hand resting on my shoulder.