Don't make me come out there and think

I usually try to give family and friends fair warning when I launch into big thoughts. To paraphrase Arlo Guthrie, it's usually the case that, when I get to thinking, I'm usually not any better off after I'm done than when I started.
My mother often said, and I've often quoted her as saying, that she was planting winter wheat. The things that she was doing wouldn't be completed in her lifetime, but would, with proper attention by family and friends, yield a good and early crop.
With the passing of Sandra's father, I've been wondering what crops will we bring forth from his life. What crops did we bring from my parents, grandparents, other relatives, friends? What of those friends who died by their own hands or, in pretty much the same way, by too much booze, too many drugs, too much of everything? You see, it isn't always wheat that we're planting. Sometimes, it's thistles. Sometimes, it's poison ivy. Sometimes, as any New England farmer will tell you, it's just rocks that we'll harvest.
See? This is where too much thinking tangles up the metaphors and leaves us not much better off. Our language gets all twisted up and we don't know what we're talking about or what we're gonna do next.