Papa’s Dream

Papa wanted to be a farmer. It was in his blood. His parents were farmers, his grandparents were farmers, great-grandparents—that land he loved so much, it was farmed by his lineage. Papa wanted the same thing, the same life he grew up knowing. His parents retired on that land, it was the only life they knew, but Papa was forced to seek a different livelihood.

The worst drought in Texas history occurred between 1949 to 1957. The impacts were catastrophic, especially for ranchers and farmers. Unable to make ends meet, and with a growing family to support, Papa took to working the oil fields of the great Permian Basin to make a living. Any time off he had was spent at the farm.

By the time I came into the picture in the late 1970s, the drought had long ended and Papa eventually retired from the oil fields. He and Granny lived on the farm fulltime, and while the land was used for various crops (corn, wheat, sorghum), the main crop was cattle. And, much like Papa, my dad loaded up the family and took us to the farm whenever he had the free time.

After my parents divorced in the mid-eighties, my brother began having a hard time. Rebellious, acting out, and increasingly troubled, he stole a car when he was about twelve, thirteen, and drove all the way to El Paso before the cops finally pulled him over. Dad was livid. He and Papa drove through the night to rescue Kirk from the county jail. Dad weighed his options on how to handle the situation, ranting, fuming, and trying his best to keep his temper in check. With quiet reserve, Papa calmly said, “Son, don’t be so hard on the boy.” That was Papa.

Papa was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in late 1991. He was given six months to live. He attended his last Niemann Reunion in the summer of 1992, a first for my brother and I.

We always felt like the black sheep of the family after our parents divorced. We seldom went to the farm, seldom saw Granny and Papa, and were cut off from that side of the family for the most part. At the reunion, we both kept to ourselves and eventually wandered off behind some trees. Kirk played his guitar and I quietly listened, thankful to have my older brother to cling to.

But we were Paul Niemann’s grandchildren, the John Wayne of the family, the celebrity, The Duke. Everybody loved Papa, and so, despite our disposition, we were more Niemann than most of them, heirs to that fertile land, or so we thought at the time. We were dealing with some pretty heavy things at our young ages (14 and 17), but we both found solace at the farm.

After Papa died, well, things happened beyond our control, none of which would have made him happy. I wish I could have known him better, but as the years go by, I yearn for the same thing. It’s in my blood as well. I don’t know the first thing about farming. I tried growing corn once in my backyard, but the ants completely devoured it. Even still, it’s a yearning in my heart. To be on the farm with that wide open space, surrounded by loved-ones, enjoying the fruits of our labor, that’s the ultimate dream come true. Honestly, how do you beat that?