May 2021 - 18

AG LABOR REVIEW
Through good times and bad, neighbors help each other
MICHAEL MARSH
President & CEO
National Council of
Agricultural Employers
Michael@ncaeonline.org
This was a long, cold, COVID winter.
From late January until the middle of
March, the temperature rarely peaked
above 40˚ F. The sun rarely broke
through an overcast sky, and a steady
wind blew from the northwest in the
Washington, D.C. area. My bicycle,
leaning against the wall, languished
from neglect.
But finally, a little bit of spring's
promise poked its head out from the
clouds, and the wind simmered down
too. The sunshine warmed my spirit as it
warmed the surroundings.
Although it was only 42˚ F, the
forecast said 45˚ F was on the way! I
pulled on winter gear, added air to my
tires, filled my water bottle and cinched
my helmet tight for my usual 20-mile
ride. At last!
I tore up the streets and charged the
Virginia hills, filling my lungs with air
that now did not burn my lungs with
cold. I dodged other cyclists moving
too slowly for my pace and cautiously
avoided pedestrians on the path, who
were stretching their winter legs in
glorious sunshine. A cardinal flitted
past annoying a blue jay who leapt
in pursuit, and I even saw a racoon
rustling through the leaves, still awake
from its nightly foraging.
I turned northwest past the airport
and rode along the Potomac headed
for home. It had been a terrific, quick
ride, and I felt melancholy to have it
end so soon.
As I approached the Memorial Bridge
underpass, I saw another cyclist emerge
from it headed my way. The path right
there is a little treacherous, as tree roots
have pushed up the asphalt, creating a
hazard if you have too much speed. The
other rider seemed unaware.
Sure enough, I saw him hit those big
bumps, lose control and tumble onto
the asphalt, his momentum and the
bike depositing him hard to the side of
the path.
I hit my brakes and slowed, unclipping
from my pedals. I hollered asking the
other rider if he was OK, concerned
because he was not moving.
I laid my bicycle down and ran over to
the other cyclist, now somewhat relieved
because he had rolled himself to his side.
I repeated my query as to whether he
was alright as I picked up his bike and he
pulled himself to his feet, bleeding from
scrapes to his legs, elbow and forearm.
He finally said, " Yeah, I'll be OK.
What did I hit? "
I pointed out the bumps on the path
partially obscured in the shade from the
trees, just discernible in the sunlight.
The other rider nodded, looked at me
standing there still holding his bike and
kind of sizing me up. He said, " You're
not from around here, are you? "
I told him I lived just a couple of miles
from there. The other rider said, " Thank
you and thanks for stopping. " I asked
if he was going to be alright and when
he said yes, I hopped on my bike and
continued toward home.
Over the last few miles, I thought
about that incident and pondered why
the other rider had thought I might not
have been from around there. Then, it
struck me.
Having been raised in farm and ranch
country, it is just in our nature to always
stop and help someone in a tough
situation. Whether it might be someone
who has had their car skid off the road
in a snowstorm and you lend a hand
getting them out of a drift, or pitching
in if someone must head to town to
care for a sick relative, but still needs
to have irrigation water set. Helping
one another is just something you do.
Neighbors help neighbors.
In fact, Paul Harvey, the radio
broadcaster from my youth, talked of
this rural American ethos in the iconic
poem he delivered at the Future Farmers
of America convention in Kansas City in
1978. Where Harvey said, in part, " God
had to have somebody willing to ride
the ruts at double speed to get the hay in
ahead of the rain clouds, and yet stop in
mid-field and race to help when he sees
the first smoke from a neighbor's place.
So, God made a farmer. "
And I am glad that he did. Neighbors
help neighbors.
Pass it along. VGN
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May 2021

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of May 2021
