I had lunch with John Rieger a couple of months ago; we ended up at McDonald’s; he was sticking to his new healthy diet, as he ordered fries along with a burger.

John said this was the first time he had a social lunch with anyone in the 50 years he has been running Country Power Products, the epicenter of the agricultural world in my rural county.

John was stunned when I invited him to lunch and, at first, was distinctly uncomfortable. John works dan to dusk, seven days a week, every day except for two weeks in the winter when he and his wife Millie visit their Florida trailer. He loves Florida but has no desire to live there.

I have this feeling that as much as we enjoy talking to each other, that was our last lunch. It just isn’t something John does. All day, he is at his desk, on his computer, talking to customers, talking to the staff, and on the phone.

Today, John pulled up a chair and talked like brothers for a couple of hours.  Talking to him is easy, and it was easy from the very first.That is not a common experience for me. At first, John was bewildered by me, and uneasy thinking I was another city snoot ready to turn my nose up at country people.

We had a long talk about why country people are so suspicious and fed up with city people. He was surprised that I was so “real.” I told him I didn’t grow up in a rich city, the cities I lived in were always poor. He and I are both immigrant kids, and we appreciate the importance of that experience.

Nobody gave either one of us anything, we either learned quick or sank.

Talking with him is easy. We never run out of things to talk about, and the cluttered little office is full of laughter.

John keeps telling me he has never known anybody like me, and I can’t recall ever knowing anybody quite like him, although I have lived in the country for nearly two decades, and John is country through and through.

 

Our friendship is a gift to me. John operates out of an insanely cluttered office that looks like he has not been cleaned out in a half-century. His gracious wife Millie works several days a week in an adjoining office and tries to keep order.

John squirms when I take his photo, he isn’t used to it. He always tries to take his glasses off, as if that is bad manners.

The loyal and hardworking Casey runs the store, answers the phone, handles the sales, and orders soil, feed, and other farm products over the phone. All day long, customers, farmers, men and women, kids and young parents come in. They all know him,, talk to him, and usually thank him for one generosity or another.

He can’t get over that I make a living blogging, he never heard of such a thing.

Strapping high school boys working summer jobs show up with it and put it into people’s cars.

The store has the vibe of a family; that’s what it feels like to be in there. John is 80 and is constantly told to slow down, but even I know that will never happen. It will never happen to me either. We will both go until we drop.

John and I grew up in very different places in very different ways. He grew up on a farm and still has a farm and sells to farmers. He has never lived anywhere else.

I grew up in cities, held 19 jobs in 19 different places, and had never set foot on a farm until I moved up to Washington County and bought the first Bedlam Farm. I am not a farmer; I am a writer who lives on a farm and writes about his farm and life.

He reeks of empathy and talks often about the hardships his customers – the farm families – are enduring right now the cost of everything – especially gas prices and everything else they need are shooting up.

He winces when he talks bout their fear and suffering and about how hard he struggles to keep his prices low.

The farming community here is really one big family, just scattered all over the place. When one family hurts they all hurt, and right now they are all hurting, and badly.

 

(Casey, the glue that holds John’s store together. She is one of the most efficient and calm people I have met.)

There is a big difference. I would survive a week as a real farmer. Maria could last forever. Today, John told me that I was the most genuine person he had ever met, and I was shocked by this and blushed. I don’t know what he means, but I might say the same of him.

We talk quickly and openly, even though we know our politics are very different from one another, but our principles and moral values, and view of life are eerily similar. We really could be brothers.

My friends tend to be with people who seem completely different from me but are pretty similar. Although I can often be intolerant, nobody taught us to hate people who are different; we are fascinated by them.

John, like me, is a committed do-gooder, especially when it comes to helping the young. He hires them, finds jobs, assists them when they are in trouble, and guides them when they are lost. He has only one speed, all-out, but this is softened by his gentle humor, easy smile, and great heart. Just going there makes me feel warm and hopeful.

I don’t want to go there too often because John and I would sit and talk all day; we are both happy to find one another. We are both storytellers and good at it.

John is not like anyone I knew when I lived in cities. He is a cheerful dinosaur, in many ways, turned to the future but unwilling to shed the values of the past.

Neither of us has the American disease that causes us to hate people who are different. We revel in our differences and our ability to respect each other and move away from argument and rage. But then, as John says, he never really met anyone like me.

I’m glad we did. Every time I sit down and talk to John, I give thanks for his presence in my life. I, A was hoping for some new friends and this one popped up unexpectedly. He was right under my nose.