From the journal of Bright Macintosh
Date Unknown
It all started with a conversation I had with my son, Big Macintosh. After tilling the fields of Sweet Apple Acres and working up a sweat under the heat of a bright and sunny day, him and I, Bright Mac, sat down upon a couple of tree stumps to drink some cold water from a glass jug while trying to talk to each other about whatever seemed to be on our minds. Little did I know at the time that our communication was going to become a father-son problem.
That conversation became the first argument I remembered with my son.
As I said before, we both work under the heat of Celestia’s sun day-in and day-out. From the moment when it peaks over the horizon at dawn to when it sets down at twilight, me and my son are out in the fields, minding our own business with tilling, planting, seeding, and growing strong apple trees to buck for future seasons to come. It’s mindless work most of the time, not requiring that much talking once you do know what you are doing out in the fields.
At dusk, when we turned in for the night, me and son are usually so darn tired that we seemed to forget our mental filters, the part of your brain that usually dictates what’s right and what’s wrong, and shout at each other sometimes over the stupidest of things. Whether it's about where my son put his cropping tools or how he thinks we should change our strategy on how to grow the apple trees, we were bickering and arguing over every single little thing that ran across our heads for quite a while.
In fact, that action seemed to be going on for about a couple months.
I and Apple Butter figured at first, he, Big Mac, was just simply going through a rebellious phase similar to mine when I was a colt. I’ll admit, I did act out-of-line during that phase with me yelling at my parents, staying out late (with you know who!), disobeying orders, etc. The list goes on-and-on. Anyhoof, it seemed to just be further proof that Big Mac was just the same chip off the block as me. A somewhat mirrored image of his own Pa.
However, that thought began to change as the arguments continued to happen on a more frequent basis. It almost became a toxic routine with me and him waking up each morning, exchanging dirty looks at each other, and then harnessing up to till the fields. Afterwards we would work separately on different areas of the farm, followed by harvesting apples, a break, and then working once more in our own sections once more. Then at the end of day, we would join back up at the house and fight until Big Mac went to bed it seemed.
Sigh… This had to stop. Immediately.
One day I tried to pull him aside and get down to his level, trying to talk to him face-to-face like a boss consulting his worker. To which, no surprise, it didn’t seem to work. It only gave us a chance to vent out more anger and frustration at each other over the various problems that now have stacked upon each other like a deck of cards. Only now him and I seemed to have taken that stack and pushed it, watching it crumble to the ground and leave a mess.
“What has gotten into you?” asked him, pointing a hoof at him. “What has turned you into this rotten, hate filled colt that was once my son? I mean we use to be so close to each other, bud, but now it seems like we can’t talk to each other without bickering like foals!” I shouted, flinging my hooves into the air. “So, what the heck is your problem son?”
He huffed at me. “You don’t understand,” was all my Big Mac mumbled from underneath his mouth before he trotted away, leaving me to shake my head in frustration.
I had enough of it. At this point, I had to get to the bottom of this and figure out why my son thinks of me as some antagonizing monster he could only fight with. Therefore, with a huff of my own, I followed him back to the house and made my way up to his room. With a knock and a creak from the outer frame, I opened my son’s door and walked in to find him looking out the window. With his back turned away from me, he sighed before asking a question I didn’t expect to hear from him immediately.
“Dad, how much money do you make in an hour?”
“What?” I said, my head tilting towards the side.
Big Mac sternly repeated, “How many bits do you make within an hour?”
I had no clue why he was asking me that question, or how to exactly answer it either. Our family’s income can’t exactly be estimated to a bit per hour salary. It’s annual profit based, thus there wasn’t any reason as to why my son asked that question. However, I was already too flustered with him to care about that at the moment, so I decided to roll along with it and give him a bit figure to be happy with.
“I don’t honestly know, but I guess I’ll say around twenty bits for sure,” I answered with a curious tone in my voice. “Son, why do you ask that question?”
With no hesitation, my son said directly to me, “Because I have sixty bits and wish to buy at least three hours of your time.”
Big Mac then admitted the truth about how he felt about me and work. To him, it seemed to be that I have gotten so caught up in farming apples that I forgot about how much it means to him to spend quality time with each other.Therefore, Big Mac explained how he felt it grew him apart from me, to the point where we were arguing more than bonding.
Thus, he wanted to purchase three hours of my time to bond once more.
He wanted to buy my time.
I felt horrible after I realized that with my gut twisting into a painful knot. He had a point and I was wrong to set my work priorities overspending time with him. What kind of heartless father am I to do that anyway? So, I looked at him and we promised to be clear with each other about matters such as our relationship between each other… of course after handing down his punishment for all the recent back talking. He couldn’t get out of this without at least some retribution!
As for the rest of our conversation, we did spend a good hour talking to each other over the various things going on in our lives. While I still remained at home, working the fields as my wife took care of our young Applejack, Big Mac said me that he was nervous about returning to school in the fall. I just had to crack a joke here and admit to him that all that fancy knowledge he learns there is like rock. It’s hard, but useful if you know how to apply it to a situation.
Son, I love you. You, Apple Butter, Applejack, and soon to be Apple #3 are the four most wonderful things I cherish in my life. Above all else, you guys still the most wonderful blessings in my life, to which I would still go to Tartarus and back (if I had to) to have you remain by my side. That is how much you guys mean to me. You all are my life now; thus, I should make sure that I remain to be a part of your lives as well.
I shall vow to never put work over my kids ever again.
