Shootin' it Straight - Paying The Price

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As I roll into another tax season and sort through papers and receipts, the question is asked indirectly regarding what this piece of ground I live on is worth. This home, this farm, and what it consists of are printed out in black and white—spaced correctly, with the appropriate notations and all the boxes checked. Yet, they still don’t get it. As much as the IRS and others designate a dollar amount to jot down, it doesn’t even compute in my mind. It’s far beyond what is paid in property taxes each year. The PVA has it listed with a precise dollar value, but it’s shortsighted. The bank would loan varying amounts based on what it surveyed for. A realtor would use misleading phrases about it being the perfect, tranquil getaway but also the perfect commuter’s distance to civilization as they list it for a price.

What they all overlook and can’t remotely fathom is what it’s really worth. Unless you’ve lived it, you wouldn’t understand the cost. This land has cost my grandparents a Jubilee Ford tractor, multiple Case SC models, a Minneapolis Moline, Farmalls, and others that were run into oblivion tending this dirt. This land was watered with multiple generations of sweat and literal blood from my grandmother’s hands as she hoisted wire-bound square bales onto a wagon. This dirt cost a lifetime of restless nights as the family prayed for rain and good crops. This patch of earth was paid for with dollars, lumber sold, calloused hands, and sugar cane converted to molasses. These reclaimed fields have taken machinery back to rust in their clutches. A Firestone tire or twenty has been donated to gashed sidewalls while patrolling the rough edges.

These acres cost thirty-plus years of my father driving hours to a job a county away, just to break even on paying taxes for these hills. This patch of earth takes a ton of billable man-hours worth of maintenance to stay functional. It has cost a warehouse full of chainsaws, shovels, trimmers, culverts, plows, and whatever else the land demands as payment for its upkeep.

There is no dollar amount that can truly be assigned to land passed down for four-plus generations. It takes with no regard for well-being. Between nature and the four seasons, it’s always demanding. It has, and always will, demand payment for its services. For the joy it offers, for the peace it gives, for the crops it produces, and for the hunting it allows, it is owed a payment. No matter the title of ownership, rent is paid daily. That rent is paid in blood, sweat, and tears. The worth of this land must be tallied in what my great-grandfather's existence was worth. It saw my grandparents give their lives to keep it afloat. My father took his last breath with it intact after a lifetime of work. If the Lord sees fit, I’ll pass right here with my heels dug into this ground. That is what this piece of heaven is worth. That is the cost. The price is not in a dollar amount, but understand that it takes everything.