Standing on Strong Shoulders, Building Forward

As I write this, I’m flying home from my beloved Uncle Marshall’s celebration of life. Longtime readers may remember him as the one who first nudged us down the avocado path—but his influence runs far deeper than fruit.

Marshall shaped how I see work, land, and responsibility. He taught me the dignity of effort, the joy of curiosity, and the belief that the best learning happens by doing. In 1972, he and his young family left the ranch for Arkansas to try a different kind of farming. He never truly left the ranch—he stayed involved from afar—but he wanted a new adventure.

I spent four formative summers on his large soybean and alfalfa farm. I was built for manual labor, and he put me right to work. We weeded soybeans row by row, adding more rows as we got faster. At twelve, I was proud to manage three rows on each side. Marshall worked six and supervised us all—assigning work to match ability. We worked side by side, singing, talking, laughing.

Marshall was a cattleman too. He would buy a dozen or so male calves from a local dairy and raise them, which meant hand bottle-feeding them. Feeding those calves was pure joy: big eyes, soft noses, gummy mouths—truly beautiful animals. The first feeding was at 5 a.m.

I was “allowed” to help. Marshall told me he would knock once on my bedroom door. If I was dressed and in the kitchen within five minutes, I could go to the barn. It was summer vacation. I shot out of bed and was ready in two minutes. He wouldn’t have knocked twice nor waited—but I loved the work.

Years later, when we returned to work land that Marshall had once broken, he called often—offering encouragement, advice, and practical wisdom. He taught me how to use a chainsaw for pruning and how to weld. I’m quite good at the former and terrible at the latter—some lessons stick better than others.

There’s a spot on the ranch where a road crosses a seasonal creek. To prevent erosion, Marshall built an Arizona crossing using local rock and tamped cement—stomping it down with his boots. After a large storm a few years ago, the top of that crossing became visible again. There, perfectly preserved, was the imprint of his boot.

Marshall was 6’1”. I’m 6’1”. We wear the same size boots. I can place my foot exactly where he once stood. When I walk that road, I often stop and do just that. It’s a powerful reminder of the generations that came before—and the ones yet to follow. Standing on strong shoulders fills me with optimism, not fear. I understand the power of continuity: I am one link in a long chain, building forward—carrying on a legacy left by a truly wonderful man.