Essay: Tossing Out Tradition by Emily Possehl “Tradition is a guide and not a jailer.” —W. Somerset Maugham Well, that would be the ideal scenario, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, a more accurate statement might have been, “Tradition should be a guide, but is often promoted to a jailer.” There are times when tradition is beautiful, no doubt; in art, in dance, in culture. It can be sacred, pure, enchantingly rustic. Sometimes it is subtle, no more visible than a gossamer thread weaving together past and present, as it did when it tied together endless summer days long gone with those I sweated through at twelve years old, bent over under the heat of the sun and the weight of each hay bale I pulled from the chute of my dad’s New Holland as it thunked and swayed and coughed dust behind his Ford 8N tractor. It didn’t feel like a jailer then, as it usually doesn’t, but that’s because a jailer’s presence is only obvious when one finds oneself in jail. Rather than compile a list of the endless instances where the cell doors have closed, I’d like to take an in-depth look at just one particular case, in the hopes that it will paint a vivid enough picture all on its own. It’s not the sort of thing that would land most people behind bars; it’s out in Page 67
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