Good Intentions

My mother always said "Good intentions pave the road to Hell."  That statement stopped many a whining statement excusing my lack of foresight or thought of consequences.  For years I carried a mental image of a long and winding road of paving stones each labeled with such things as: I was going to do it tomorrow or I meant to call her back.  Good intentions without forethought and acceptance of consequences can come back to bite you in the butt.


This was really brought home to us one spring.


The farm that our son rents adjoining us has a small, family cemetery located in the field straight out from my laundry room window.  When he took over the farm the cemetery had become neglected over time. The wrought iron fence had fallen, some of the stones were tilted and blackberry brambles had created a Brer Rabbit thicket.  Intrigued by the history of the spot my son spent a few hours here and there pulling weeds, cutting back the bushes and straightening the fence.  The main stone, a slender obelisk, dated from the late 1800's.  A farmer, who obviously, loved his farm and chose to spend eternity keeping an eye on his fields. surrounded by various family members. 


Behind the wrought iron fence, protected from grazing livestock and hay harvests, a tiny seed had taken root.  Over the years the little seed became a sturdy tree, eventually lending shade in an otherwise treeless field.


The little cemetery, sitting serenely in the sun in the pasture, came to the attention of a group of well meaning citizens with good intentions.  "We want to see the inscriptions in the cemetery,"  they requested.  "Not a problem", our son replied, "just be sure to close the gate to keep the cows in."  "Do you own this land?" they inquired.  "No, I just rent it." he replied.  "Ummm", they said as they drove off through the field. 


No one gave the incident much thought, until we looked up one morning and noticed a large truck and several cars congregated at the gate to the field.  Grabbing their hats Hubby and Son tore out to see what on earth was going on.  They arrived to discover their little historian issuing orders and directions to a group about to descend upon the cemetery.  "What's going on here?" blustered Hubby, not at all excited to have his breakfast disturbed.  "Oh.  We are here to clean up the cemetery." came the response.  "What do you mean and what is that truck for?" Hubby demanded.  "That's the tree cutters truck." the little man replied "he's going to remove the tree that is disturbing the cemetery stones." 


"Cut the tree!!" came the surprised response from Hubby and Son.  "You can't do that!  That's the only shade for the cattle.  They need that tree!"  "But it is disturbing the grave markers and pushing on the fence.  Besides we have permission from the landowner to be here and a request from a descendent, signed by a judge to restore the cemetery.", was the calm answer.  Knowing that legally they didn't have a leg to stand on, the two frustrated farmers begged for the tree and the shade for their cattle.  No request or argument swayed the opinion of the little group who were determined to resurrect the cemetery.  Giving up in defeat, the two returned to their chores and watched as the tree was cut down and carefully lowered over the wrought iron fence and dropped in the field.  Catching up with the leader as they loaded up their cars, they asked in confusion, "What about the tree and all the branches that you've left in the field.?'  "Oh, you can have them if you want." he replied cheerfully, "We're through now."  With that he waved and drove off.


With dismay, they looked at the debris and chunks of tree littering the area around the cemetery.  All of which would have to be picked up and removed before the hay could be cut.  All because of the good intentions of our son, who cleaned up the little cemetery, which let it be seen by a historian driving by, with good intentions, who wanted to preserve a bit of history.  All good deeds that had unfortunate consequences.


The ones who really suffered the consequences were the cows.  They had always gathered under that tree to spend the heat of the day.  Dozing and relaxing in the dappled shade they had waited for the cool of the evening to come.  The next morning I looked out my window and watched as the cattle wandered in from their grazing to gather at the little cemetery.  They clustered as they would have done had the tree still stood, tall and shady.  Restlessly moving, they looked around as though wondering where their friendly shade had gone, eventually drifting on to graze. 


We watched each morning for a week as the cattle repeated their pilgrimage to the cemetery as though hoping each day their friendly shade tree would return. 


It was just a tree.


(A little footnote.  We are really very fond of the little cemetery and the history it represents, which is why our son took care of it in the first place.  I have no doubt the farmer who loved his farm enough to be buried on the hill would not begrudge the cattle enjoying the shade, even if it did tilt the fence!)


(Footnote number two.  In the three years since this happened only one person has come back to see the cemetery and no one has returned to do any work to clean it up, restore the fence, cut the weeds and bushes or clean the grave markers.  Good intentions.)