The “Poor Bastard” Rule

You may be familiar with the Hatfields and McCoys. If not, let me recap: two families in Kentucky got into a pissing match that started during the American Civil War and lasted, in one way or another, until a signed truce in 2003. On a state FFA officer trip to Europe in 2003, I found myself seated next to Hannah of the Hatfields. The flight was seven hours long, and during that time, she enlightened me on some finer details.

I’ve since pondered whether such a thing could happen where I come from. I grew up in a little farming community in a frontier county. It’s the type of place with a long memory, though it’s less about “grudge-holding” and more about “pre-judging.” You’ll hear things like, “He’s just like his damn dad—can’t trust him any farther than you can throw him.”

But honestly, dirt farming in western Kansas is a heavy enough burden to carry without adding on a centuries-old vendetta. German farmers around here have sharp tongues when they use them, and even sharper eyes. Truth be told, everyone around here is such a good shot that any sort of blood feud would probably ensure a rapid depletion of the population. In a week, there wouldn’t be anyone left to bury the bodies.

So folks go along to get along, and most of them spend enough time struggling through their day that they can all relate. The best natural comedians I’ve ever known are western Kansas farmers and bass players—both the kind to just get after the job outside the spotlight. It makes for an enjoyable work environment if you’ve got the wit to play along and the skin to shed some arrows.

When I was a teenager, I went to work for a neighboring farmer. It was a bit like crossing clans—the Brauns had a bit of a mystical reputation. There were stories of great feats of strength, unbelievable shots made with all sorts of weaponry, and prodigious amounts of beer drunk. But more than anything, they were well-respected and always lent a hand to someone in need without asking for anything in return.

I came from a different type of clan. If the Brauns were a football offense, they’d be the ground-and-pound, three yards and a cloud of dust, no-frills type. The Maddys were more like a run-and-gun, fast-paced, no-huddle offense—custom wheat harvesters more than farmers or ranchers.

We rounded up cattle in an ATV rodeo of four-wheelers and motorcycles, sure to end in some type of fantastic disaster or amazing capture. The Brauns would take a bucket of grain and wander into the pasture, slowly leading a hundred head with a soft word, country crip-walking all the way back to the corral.

And it was there that I really learned to think, speak, and act as a man. There’s something about not being related that creates a barrier between folks—you’re less likely to get the thoughtless response when you’re a kid who goes back each night to a dinner table you can’t control. Roger and Spencer each have a great wit, though entirely different. One is soft-spoken, intensely thoughtful, and intentional, while the other is a born salesman with a flair for drama. I liked them both and still do.

It was there I learned to let shit go. Bad stuff happens, but there’s a job to be done, and that job is going to suck if you keep holding on to whatever bad thing happened. I was an inexperienced but bright kid who would think three or four steps down the line to maximize efficiency. The problem is, thinking doesn’t always come out the same in execution. And on a farm, things go wrong. Stuff breaks, and then you fix it. So goes the world.

It was here I learned about “The Poor Bastard Rule,” as Spencer and I chose to call it. The rule is: whoever the poor bastard happens to be using the thing when it breaks gets blamed for it.

It’s a laughable rule and mostly true, but over long afternoons in the shop and longer hours in the field, we would run a post-mortem.

What did go wrong? Why? What led to that?

When you’re in a tractor seat for sixteen straight hours, or pounding staples building fence all day, you realize you can’t be angry or upset the whole time about something that didn’t go right. Instead, the mind does what minds do in a safe environment—figure shit out.

The driveshaft that twisted on you probably wasn’t being over-stressed for the first time, and I could probably recall a time when I dumped the clutch at a slight uphill angle with a heavy load on the back. Turns out the box beam that cracked when I tightened the bolts with an impact wrench had been welded on three years before when Spencer whacked a telephone pole. The tire that blew out had been slowly going flat over the last three months, getting a shot of air each time the implement went to the field.

The point is—rarely does the bad thing happen all alone. It’s usually the result of ten, twenty, or a thousand little stressors, oops’s, boo-boos, and “oh-shits” that occurred long before.

I thought about this recently while reading a book on Japanese concepts. You’ve probably heard of kaizen, which means to continuously improve—this is the core of craftsmanship. Maybe you know about ikigai—finding your true passion, the reason to get out of bed each morning.

The one that got my attention most was “lingchi”—Death by a Thousand Cuts. It’s pretty self-explanatory, and my stomach has never been one for gore, so your imagination can suffice. When I read about Death by a Thousand Cuts, I instantly thought of all those breakdowns that could have been prevented, the painful “before” pictures of gym transformations, and the long nights of regret.

The real lesson comes when you’re fixing the thing, losing hours, sweating under a vicious sun. You’re roaring down the highway to chase cattle off the road after a 2 a.m. phone call from the sheriff’s office. You’re ten acres from being done with a locked-up bearing that had been thirsting for grease for two weeks.

The same thing happens in our daily lives. You don’t just wake up one day fifty pounds overweight in a filthy house with a drinking habit to go along with a screen addiction. Each of those things started years ago, and we ignore what doesn’t break until it does. We put it off till tomorrow, next month, or next year. You’ll get to it when you have time, when it rains, after you get through this week.

And then you find yourself in a hole, so far down it seems impossible to climb out. And that’s the hardest part—realizing how far you’ve fallen. Because then you start to believe you’re the person who deserves this, who can’t move past it, and it’s too much to even know where to begin.

I’ve been there—found myself in places with people I didn’t recognize, doing things I couldn’t imagine myself doing. Why? How far back does it go?

Here’s the good news—it doesn’t matter. You aren’t your weight problem, your bad relationships, your empty bank account, or your terrible haircut! You are whoever you decide to be—now, moving forward, and to the end if you like.

Death by a Thousand Cuts works in reverse. Life by a Thousand Tiny Decisions. What can you do to make things better?

The question is not where to start—it’s when. The answer is now.

Stop getting ready to get ready, thinking about the perfect way to make it easy. That comes with practice. Pick up the sock, go on a walk, put down the phone, put the dishes away.

There is nothing you cannot do if you simply start and don’t stop.

The Hatfield-McCoy blood feud started over a death in the war… but it escalated over a damn hog. A pig. Somebody maybe stole it, maybe not, and for nearly 150 years folks lived in anger and resentment.

Whatever you haven’t forgiven yourself for—the relationship, the wreck, the bad investment, the unkind words—sign a truce with yourself. End it, and move on.

If you’re stuck and looking for something to overcome inertia, here are the highest impact suggestions I have found. Try one or a couple, but give yourself the kindness of assuming you can do any or all of them. You are capable of far more than you will ever know.

1. Shut your phone off each night two hours before bed.
2. Start your morning with a short walk.
3. Get a real book – the kind you hold in your hands – and use your eyeballs to read it.
4. Look at the things on your dresser and ask yourself “do these belong here?”
5. Each time you get out of your truck, take one thing that shouldn’t be there.
6. Wash your dishes after you use them. Right after.
7. Call someone to ask about their day.
8. Dust.
9. Make your bed.
10. Commit to not eating things that come in wrappers.

Today is your new day—enjoy it as such!