I’ve heard throughout my life that you will only have one or two very best friends in your lifetime. I’m talking about the kind of friend who stays near, no matter how far you may push them away. Remains resilient, no matter how “Crazy, right out of the box” you are.
Regardless of how differently we are wired, different nervous systems, different brains and processing procedures, different hearts and capabilities for feelings, compassion and empathy, not to mention our past traumas. YES VIRGINA, WE ARE ALL VASTLY DIFFERENT.
A BEST friend, is someone with whom you feel closest to, they are the most cherished confidant–someone with whom you share a deep, unconditional bond, built on trust, loyalty, and bucket loads of understanding and forgiveness. For all parites included. The friendship is rooted in genuine care, and mutual support, comfort and it creates a space where both people can be their true selves without judgement or pretense.
A BEST Friend will think of you instinctively, sometimes more than themselves, they hold your deepest secrets, encourage you to always give your best, and they remain loyal through both the good times and the challenging ones. As mere humans, there are MANY challenging times when we fall short for other people, but a good friend will look past all your failings and will stay beside you, cheering you forward and will be there to celebrate your wins. They will be there when you mourn your losses, and show up when you least expect it, and sometimes at inconvenient moments—they truly are your “RIDE OR DIE” person.
A BEST friend is an emotional trust blanket that gives you comfort and allows you to have UNFILTERED conversations without giving you that look or rolling their eyes as if you are just too much for them. That’s the hallmark of friendship right there. Nothing has to be left unsaid, and you can be a vulnerable or playful as you want to be without fear of being mocked. They listen without judgement, love without changing you, and they constantly remind you that you matter. That you are ENOUGH exactly as you are, they may even celebrate how different you are from the average person.
Neither time nor distance will diminish the bond— a best friend feels like home, and reconnecting with them always feels smooth and seamless, regardless of how much time has lapsed since the last visit. Being best friends also means that, on those rare occasions, one of you will need to gently “suggest” to the other that they may be wrong and encourage them to revisit the situation they’re discussing. When you are best friends, you push one another towards becoming better versions of yourselves and offer a shoulder to lean on. This connection between two people goes beyond shared interests or experiences; it’s a bond built by sharing the most vulnerable parts of yourself and knowing that no matter how serious or revealing it is, the other person hears you and sees you and won’t repeat it to another.
A best friend is very rare and valuable; they enrich your life in ways too numerous to count, they are your greatest supporter, offering love, understanding, laughter, and unwavering companionship through life’s journey.
IF YOU ARE SO FORTUNATE to have a best friend, never take them for granted, for they are few and far between. As mere humans, we fall short in so many ways, on so many levels each and every day, but a true friend, a good friend….the “I’ve always got your back” kind of friend, is a gift beyond measure. We can all hope that our families love us, and though we do not expect it to be contagious in the outside world.
GOD BLESS the individual who can love us at our lowest point, during our ugliest moment, and still choose to love us and accept us just as we are. They don’t turn their back and walk away; they may disagree with how we feel or what we are doing or going through, but they still reach over and hold our hand through it all. They hug you and don’t judge you. Their face lights up when you walk into a room, and a phone call between you is solid gold.
I have had a couple of friends like this in my lifetime, and they have made all the difference in my life. I certainly hope that I have done the same for them.
On September 04, our father turned 88 years young. ANY birthday of his is worth celebrating in the eyes of his children. However, he is a very active man, with social obligations, such as the Masonic temple and the local American Legion. He still plays his guitar and sings in a band, and his voice still sounds like that of the famous country western singer Marty Robbins. He still farms, and to make life even more eventful, he is also a taxidermist. All of these things have been a part of his life since he was young, so getting an appointment with him or having him over for dinner requires reaching out really early to set it up. (I am thankful his life is so full and busy, and he is one optimistic, happy human)
So, the evening before his birthday, I invited him and his wife over for a simple dinner. Which didn’t turn out as I had hoped meal-wise. I am accustomed to cooking for large groups of people most of the time, with our children and grandchildren around us. That being said, I made a meatloaf that turned out to be too large, filling the pan to overflowing, and it took longer to cook than I had anticipated. The potatoes didn’t cook well; they literally boiled down to a soup. The only thing that turned out was the homemade carrot cake. I took a photo of Dad with his cake, and then I pulled a special plate out of my China cabinet. His mom, My grandma Doris had given this little plate to me years ago and said she served his birthday cake on it every year, his and his little brothers. It is very dried and cracked but so precious to see him holding the cake his mom used to put his small birthday cakes on.
Then, after cake and more coffee, Dad mentioned a few times that they had a mother peacock that had hatched some babies, and he was worried that if they didn’t get her corralled into the barn or chicken house, a raccoon would eat the new babies. Suddenly, I had an idea and offered to follow him home right then to find the peacock hen and her babies. It took a bit of coaxing to get him to accept our help, but soon we were all headed in our vehicles down the road to Dad’s, the farm I was raised on.
We weren’t even at his farm yet, which is only 3 miles north of my own farm, when it began to rain. Of course, it wasn’t a sweet, light Autumn rain; it was a full-fledged downpour. A fun game of HIDE AND SEEK would now begin. Dad was the only one who thought to bring a flashlight. I mean, these are large fowl, how hard can it be to find them? Haha.
We covered every inch of his barns, including the hay lofts. We searched beneath every piece of equipment, such as tractors and trailers, and moved large round bales of hay. We also moved just about every piece of wood or plywood leaning against a wall, as well as empty plastic bags of feed. Dad climbed on top of the round bales searching for her. He knew she could get up off the ground, but he also knew she wouldn’t leave her babies, and the babies could not fly at birth. It continued to pour rain upon our heads, the water was so heavy, we couldn’t hardly keep the rain off our faces to see, and we continued to look for the momma peacock and hen.
I walked past an old lift truck belonging to my brother and saw the gray peacock sitting on the top of it. I hollered for Dad. I may have found her. He came running, and guess what? It wasn’t her, but another mother-to-be sitting on a nest of four eggs. Dad made a mental note to keep an eye on her for the babies hatching, and we continued to play hide and seek with the momma peacock and her babies, to no avail.
Dad relinquished the search, primarily due to the intense rain, but he was sad about it. Before I jumped in the truck to come home, I ran and grabbed my phone to take this photo.
Is it a nice picture of either of us? No, but to me, I am one proud daughter who, on my father’s 88th birthday, I was blessed to play a game of hide and seek with him during a torrential downpour, laughing the whole time as we searched for a peacock and her babies. (Because the photo is so real, and we both look like drowned RATS. … I’m sharing a few pictures of us not drenched.)
Any time I get to spend with Dad is a precious time. All of my life, the man has been a great example of strength, fortitude, and determination. Sheer grit has pulled him and our family through some pretty tough times, some lean years when not only money tight or scarce, but the dinner menu dropped to pinto beans, burger, potatoes, and now and then the dreaded bit or two of liver that to this day I cannot like. Somehow, Dad kept the wolf back from the door. He even ran a trapline in 1973. Every morning, he and our baby brother, not yet in school, would walk a long trap line along the creek and through the woods for muskrat, coon, mink, or rabbit, and he would skin the varmints, fry the meat, and sell the hide.
The kind of living teaching adults and children something special about living and existing until times get better, that you will never leave being comfortable or wealthy. They are tough lessons to live through, but you learn so much during the struggles about life and about yourself. Dad worked hard for every single thing he got, and he was a good steward of the farm his parents bought in 1946, when he was 9 years old. His father would die of a massive heart ache that next year, and at age ten, he would help his broken-hearted mother to raise his 6-year-old brother and 4-year-old sister. He would go on to build a kitchen for his mom, bring plumbing to their home and buy the families first television set and many other amenities. He bought his first 40 acres just up the road from their home when he was a junior in high school. Today, 2025 he has lived on the same farm for 78 years.
Dad has never been overly demonstrative; he wasn’t raised that way, and neither were we. BUT…. we always felt that he loved us, enjoyed us kids being around. He would talk to us at the kitchen table about anything and everything, and we all got to voice our opinions and were allowed to ask questions without being ridiculed or told to sit down and shut up. He told us multiple times, no matter what the subject matter was, as long as we kept a civil, respectful tongue in our mouths, there was no subject off limits to discuss. Now, as the father, if he made a decision on something, the debate was over or could be addressed at a later time. He was always honest and fair.
School was the same situation. He would listen to us about a problem that may have come up, and a time or two, one of my three brothers would get into a small fight or argument. Dad would say, “You tell me the truth, and don’t be disrespectful to your elders, and no matter the consequence, I will stand beside you, and we will face it together, and for Goodness’ sake, please don’t let me walk into a principal’s office and find out that you have been dishonest or disrespectful. I don’t want to have to hang my head in shame. He never had to. Not with one of us four children.
Again, when I walk back through the pages of my youth, it wasn’t just the big moments or the special ones that stand out. It’s all the small moments, the lessons learned under his guidance, all the talks around that supper table, the laughter, the singing while he played his guitar, trying to gather the lyrics and the right beat from one of us for the latest country and western song. All the popular stars of the time were referred to on a first-name basis by all of us. There was never a need for the last name when Dad said, ” Hank, Marty, Ray, Glen, Dolly, Loretta, Patsy, Kitty. We knew their songs; heck, they were like family to us…. in our farmhouse.
Like many parents, he made numerous sacrifices for his family, and his wisdom was always spot on. He gave us more than I could ever put into words, the encouragement to think for ourselves. The stories of our ancestors proved to be priceless for me, and we took great comfort and security in knowing we could always reach out and ask for his help or suggestions. He would offer us his sage, tired, and true advice. In the event that we didn’t take his advice, we were the only ones to blame, and still, he was relatively soft-spoken towards us as he would grin, raise his eyebrows, tip his head, and give us that….”I told you so” stare.
I am grateful for the time we spend with Dad, for every single visit, for every word he speaks, his talents, and his intelligence, which are unmatched. Not because he is our father, but simply because he is such a good man. A giant of a man who only stands 5 feet 8, inches tall and might weigh 155 pounds soaking wet.
As I mentioned, it is not a good photo of either one of us, but the memory….well, it’s worth far more than gold or silver to this farmer’s daughter!
Thirty-one years ago, my dearest and best friend Burton Chester Stafford came to me on a snow-covered day in December, sat at my kitchen table and told me that he was going to marry is high school sweetheart and wanted me to go shopping with him for the ring and help him present it in a cool way to his lady.
The man had never really been in love before, and never had love returned to him In over 4 decades. o He was beyond excited. At 67, he finally in love. We went ring shopping together, bought a Stuffed Christmas bear that had the year 1993 already stamped on its foot, and I sewed the rings to the underneath of the bear’s skirt to surprise his lady.
At that same time, Burton told me that he wanted me to buy his farm. Even though he knew that we had three young children and while I CHOSE to be a stay-at-home mom; to always be there and available for them at all times, it caused us to live very tight, borderline poor. I told him, we had no money to buy such a magnificent thing, and he said we would do a land contract for a dollar down and make payments to him, as his mom had done for him.
He he wanted someone to have the farm that would love it like he has. He moved to this farm in 1936, went to war, lost his dad, was sent home and remained on the farm.
I take a lot of pleasure and comfort in knowing each day that my feet walk where his did, and his parents did. Gladys and James McNutt Stafford. (Mac) I still wear his chore coat that I know is older than I am. There is so much about that man that I still miss today. THAT IS A LIVING LEGACY. When you loved others so well, you were kind and forgiving, and humble. That is the things that keeps him alive in my heart still today and he has sadly been gone for fifteen years now.
My beloved Burt was a witness to all my early years as a wife and mom. When our first-born daughter was born on Easter Sunday, 1983, I saw him walking on the road by this very farm because of his heart condition. I stopped and showed him what the Easter Bunny had brought us, I still can see his large, calloused hand reaching out and touching the hand of our newborn daughter. I wish I had taken a photo of it. On that day, I had told Burt to stop by for coffee sometime.
For thirty-two years, he and I were absolute the best friends, each other’s confidant, and I still say Burt loved me fully and completely, in the way they talk about Jesus loving us. There was nothing I did to earn his love, or kindness, I didn’t cook or clean for him, I didn’t work for him. I was simply his friend, and he was mine. The man always found something about me to love, and that concept was new to me.
We didn’t always agree on politics and some issues, but he never once was rude or hurtful to me or anyone. He visited me through three more pregnancies, was a witness to the poverty we lived in, and for a week one springtime……when my dad threw his back out, Burt came to my old, dilapidated but CLEAN mobile home trailer and watched my babies every morning so I could run down and do my dad’s chores.
Burt never had children, he wasn’t really around kids, so this was like asking a mechanic to bake cookies. Still, he did it for me, and with his usual bright smile. He taught me the love of a camera and nature, and loaned me his car once to go see my aunt who lived far away.
He was a precious, loving, kind human and I’d like to believe that I have done him proud STILL, and I believe that he is pleased when he looks down and see’s what this farm has become and how I have brought it back to life, while I ALSO farming the old-fashioned way that he did and loved.
THE TRACTOR.
This is the OLIVER ROW CROP 66 wide front-end tractor that Burt bought new in 1949. When I bought the farm, in 1994, it was part of the package deal, along with 60 head of cattle and misc other farm equipment. It was already forty-five years old when I bought it. We used it for a few years, and I can attest that that old tractor always started. Once, during one of the worst blizzards, it was the ONLY tractor on this farm that would start and pull our truck out of the ditch. It was reliable and dependable though she cosmetically didn’t look so good. Her fender skirts were gone, her color had faded. Burt had repainted it once with primer and never got back around to adding the right restoration colors. This tractor was later sold, and it broke my heart to see it go. (That is our son, in the top photo and again in the bottom photo)
NOW CIRCA 2024
My cousin Marshall and my uncle Dave found another Row crop 66, a narrow front end that a man they knew a man wanted to sell. It is the same year, and they wanted to know if I would be interested in going to look at it. I told them no, I would take it sight unseen, but Uncle Dave insisted I go see it, so we did, along with Aunt Cheryl. It was literally pouring buckets of rain and I didn’t care. I didn’t care if the tractor was running or not, If I had to use it as a farm display forever, I just wanted another Oliver Row Crop 66 back on this farm.
JUST LOOK AT THAT BEAUTIUFL OLD GIRL, sitting in a barn, abandoned… just waiting to for someone to LOVE HER BACK TO LIFE. I paid for it, and then Uncle Dave and Marshall, drug it to their shop where they decided they were going to clean out the gas tank, the carburetor, the filters etc and within two weeks’ time they had the old girl roaring.
The moment she ran Dave called me on my cell and said, “Hey Kid, listen to this.” Unknown to him I had just pulled into his drive, so I hung up quickly and dashed inside his garage. He was surprised and laughed his big laugh.
What a thrill to see the old girl running and I mean, she purrs like a kitten after a bowl of milk. I drove her home that day, and I cannot tell you the excitement I felt as I puttered along on the old 66. When the view of my farm was in front of me I almost cried.
IF ANYONE could have heard me, they would have shaken their heads and laughed, because I patted the top of the tractor ( the fender skirts and hood were in the bed of my Ford F250 behind me)
I kept saying, “you are almost girl, a new farm, a new place to call home, a new barn to sleep in. Someone new to care about you, a second chance, a second life, and then I swear the cloud above me parted for a moment , the sun shined brightly as I turned into my driveway.
In my heart, I will always believe that it was Burt saying “Good job Sher, you brought an Oliver 66 back to the farm, back to OUR FARM.
I backed the tractor into the shop, and within moments we had one of the heaviest thunderstorms we’ve had all spring.
I have played around with sanding on it a bit, not wanting to remove too much of its original patina.
Did I mention her name? I call her MAVIS. (I took M A from Marshall and A V from Dave.)
A very dear friend stopped over to see my newest baby, and I will admit that I picked his brain on the wiring of the lights and such. I am in hopes of getting the lights working, and the decals replaced, but I have no intention of repainting the tractor. I do love to get it out and drive it around the farm a bit every few days, and for a few weeks this summer I am parking it outside beside my garden center that is just waiting for me to install the white metal siding on it. The Oliver will look even more striking sitting next to it. I LOVE it.
I stopped by my dad’s this morning to give him a haircut. It was the day after his 88th Birthday.
He poured me a cup of coffee and told his wife, Sharon, and me that he was going to start making breakfast for us. ” No, Dad, don’t make anything for me. I’m good, but thank you”. I said.
” Oh, come on, Sherry, you can eat breakfast with us. How many eggs will you eat? I eat four a day,” he counters, as he smiles across the kitchen at me. I agree to eat breakfast with them. This isn’t just for me; he does this for his sons and grandchildren, if any of them happen by for a visit before noon.
He’s got his well-worn skillet going on the stove, and as he begins frying bacon, the smell takes me back to when I was a kid, and suddenly I am sitting in the old farmhouse where he was raised, and where we were raised. Dad made breakfast every Sunday back in the day.
I watch him, his back is to me as he lifts the bacon from the pan, pours out a little of the bacon grease, and begins to crack eggs into the grease he deliberately left there for the taste. There’s a kind of reverence in the way he cracks them, like he’s done it a thousand times — because he has.
Pouring love into such a simple thing. He is tickled when he cracks a LARGE egg into the pan, and it’s a double joker. He tips his head in his familiar way and smiles.
With eggs sizzling and popping in the grease, he pulls out an electric knife, plugs it in, and cuts a few slices of the bread off the loaf to make toast. He flips the eggs, then grins and proudly confesses that he pours liquid smoke over his eggs for extra flavor. He puts the electric knife away, waits for the toast to pop up, and then spreads butter over each piece very generously.
He placed the plate in front of me like it was the most natural thing in the world — and maybe to others it is. But I felt the weight of it.
Because when your father is 88, nothing feels ordinary anymore. Every small act becomes a keepsake in my heart. A reminder to tuck these moments away and pray they stay with me forever.
I’m reminded that love shows up in the smallest acts of kindness, like a fried egg, buttered toast, or crispy bacon.
We ate breakfast together. Drank too many cups of coffee, and when I left, I hugged him tight, told him I loved him, and thanked him. –
FOR ME, it was not just for the breakfast, but for a lifetime of moments just like this one. He always put his family first, and if there was only one four donuts left or four slices of pie, after he and I and my three brothers were working all day….well, suddenly he didn’t want anything sweet and you make himself. A god-awful olive loaf sandwich. 😄
I have been incredibly BLESSED because GOD GAVE US HIM as a father and friend.
*** Breakfast was served on a paper plate, but I can assure you, it wouldn’t have touched my heart any deeper or meant more to me if the plate had been lined with pure gold. This is the GOOD STUFF that life is made of.
I am not sure how it all happened. I know I was in the room when eight out of the ten of our grandbabies were born. I was there to sing Happy BIRTH day in a hushed whisper to each one of them for the first time. I took their first photographs with their mommies and daddies. Mommies crying tears of joy, daddy’s cutting cords…. I took the first pictures when the siblings met the new baby. I was there. I was.
And yet……how can it all be. It seems inconceivable to me that I am 51 years old and have three WONDERFUL grown children of my own AND now have TEN grandbabies under the age of nine. What a sacred blessing it was for me to be invited into those moments. Memoires more precious than the spoken word can express.
I am grateful God allowed me to be here to see it all. It wasn’t this side of 9 years ago that I battled cancer and wasn’t sure I would survive to see our first Grandbaby born, and to be honest …days when I was so sick, and tired and wouldn’t have cared if I did. What a gift. I didn’t just make it to see Benjamin born, but nine more after him, and I am grateful to say I am a survivor.
It can be crazy and loud at Omie and Papas house. (Omie is German for Grandma). There is actually almost three sets of twins between our two daughters. Each of our daughters has been pregnant and delivered three babies, and each pregnancy has been within five months of the other sister’s delivery. We have a set of 2-year-olds, a set of 4-year-olds, two babies at the moment, and then there are three older grandchildren, aged 7, 8, and 9, as well as a little sister who is 2, all from our son. Life is full, and happy and loud and chaotic.
At least one or two days a week, you can drive by our farm and you will see all those yellow and red plastic cars left discarded in the yard, children riding tractors, bikes, tricycles. Or you may see them climbing up to the two-story playhouse that I built for the first of our grandbabies about five years ago. In a group effort, everyone helped me build this playhouse for the grandkids out of a woodshed that was made for our outdoor central boiler, after we relocated the Boiler unit.
We have a central boiler, Papa built a shed to hold wood, I built another one, and put a playhouse on top of it with the help of my son-in-law and son.
Last weekend, our playhouse received an upgrade. With the gift of two previously used slides, one normal and one of those enclosed, ugly slides, I decided to add 8 feet to the second deck and install another yellow slide. So we have slides going to the east and the west. A large green enclosed slide on the back side (not visible from the road…yeah) going south. The grandchildren come, and they are beyond excited. You cannot slow them down and I seriously wish I had a little copper penny for every time one of those children climb the stairs and race down a slide…..they do it hundreds of times in a day. Its crazy. The energy they have.
I am very grateful for this piece of ground that I can be the steward of while I walk on this earth. I appreciate the wonderful place our children and their children get to play and explore. That I will be able to teach them/ show them (as I did our children) what a tractor with wheels is like, what mold board plowing is, and what its like to raise animals by hand and to use a New Idea corn picker to pick ears of corn to store in a corn crib like folks did back in the 1940’s – 80’s. A hard way of life back in the day….but the best way , and we got it honest. It wasn’t handed to us…we struggle to make the payment every month like so many people today….But I am so grateful for the opportunity to wake up here every day and watch all these beautiful babies grow, play, laugh, and yes, even when they cry or scream. Its Bliss.
UPDATE…..PLAYHOUSE NUMBER TWO.
Suddenly, one day, I decided that this old playhouse was in rough shape, too many metal edges, too cobbled up and we devised a plan, and with everyone’s help, one long weekend a new playhouse was build. One of our Son in laws runs a pole building company and that was instrumental in making this all come together faster and closer to perfection than I could have ever dreamed.
The playhouse was constructed, with many windows on every side, and when the railings went up, I insisted on doubling them so no child would fall over them and get hurt. I love this playhouse, its beautiful and completely over the top. I cannot imagine how wonderful it would have been as a child if my three brothers and I would have had something like this to play in. We played in haymows, and trees, and tried tirelessly to create tree forts that just never stayed in place.
Shortly after the house was complete. The Grandsons (four of them) decided that they wanted their own home “fort.” They didn’t like all the doll stuff and dishes. One afternoon, the seven grandchildren who live in the neighborhood and spend most of their days at Omie’s daycare, we all closed in the bottom half of the building that was for lawn mowers and such and built a wall, a fort for the boys. The seven granddaughters were tickled to have the upper level to themselves. Of course, you know it goes without saying that no one stayed in their own territory. That’s just the stuff that makes life fun.
The children have loved it and enjoyed this playhouse for over a decade now. It used to be full of trunks of clothes, high heel shoes, dolls, doll beds, a small table and chairs, then it had a vintage cookstove, and shelves of dishes, pots and pans. Those kids made more mud pies, and water and grass soup than I care to recall cleaning up at the end of a weekend, but they loved it. As they grew older, we slowly moved thingsout; they outgrew playing dolls and dress up, and now there is a large brass bed and a table for playing cards or games on. There are still six windows covered in wire mesh, and it a great place to nap in the early springtime or late fall.
The bottom of the playhouse now holds about fifteen used bikes, and when the kids are all here, the circular driveway at this farm looks and sounds like a NASCAR speedway.
LIFE IS BEAUTIUFL. LIFE IS GOOD, WE ARE BLESSED, AND GRATEFUL
This is our family pet Brutus. Well actually, I think all the animals on our farm are pets in one sense or another. Brutus is an Australian Shepherd. (river rock-clay) is what they call his coloring/markings. I feel very fortunate to write that all of our outside farm dogs have been great, docile, family-oriented dogs. We have lost a few over the years as do all people. And they become so much a part of our lives. No, they aren’t our children, but I believe their should be a new word to describe their place in our lives/hearts because they are more than a family dog too.
This is Brutus. He is so much joy for me. Mainly since our children are all grown and most days its just him and I here. There is a special iron chair that sits on the back deck, and most mornings and evenings, you can find him there without fail. He sort of took over the big chair with arms that sat in the corner, tight to the glass door, out of the weather, I suspect. So, it was only natural to buy him a large dog pillow and ensure he is comfortable. Right.
Some mornings Brute can be found laying on the front deck, where he can watch the road and take in some sunshine. He is a keen watch dog.
If you drive onto our farm, and you know us at all. You only need to look for Brutus and you will know where we are. If he is sitting in the yard between the house and barn. Its a safe bet I am out in one of the barns. If He is on one of the porches. I am in the house. If he is no where to be seen, he’s with me in the back acreage. He will investigate the woods, the swamps, and will run in front of my tractor tires a dozen times, but always seems to stay out of harms way. Thank God.
He will …if I give him the nod, or pat my leg he will climb the step on my Oliver 1750 and he will push himself against the front of the seat and sit there till I cannot hardly work the pedals with ease. When I stop and say lets go, he will sit. I climb off the tractor and try to coax him to no avail. He wants to ride. In the fall, He wants to ride in the combine. I will not allow him to do this unless the door is shut and if I need to get out I shut the machines down completely so he or I never fall into moving parts.
He is my buddy, my friend, my protector. When the grandbabies are here, he is between them and the house, and if they start to wonder out of their designated play area, he is ahead of them. How does he know where they are going….smart smart dog.
Alaina and Brutus
My cousin stopped by here once, a man I hadn’t seen in almost 20 years, when I went to the porch to see who it was he informed me that he had been by the day before….but in HIS WORDS “You dog put me back in my truck”. Brutus never came near him but the look must have sent a powerful enough warning. I laughed and said “That’s his job”.
I have taken care of eight people as they were leaving this world. I was their entire hospice team. I would be gone for two or three weeks at a time, but my family said, Brutus can hear your truck coming and he starts to whine and cry and shake. When I arrived, he met me at the door of the truck and continues to whine and cry and shake while I pet him and then, he is under my feet for days.
I fell off the top of a ladder (roofline level) onto a wooden boardwalk. I was unconscious. An ambulance was called, and paramedics worked on me. Our oldest daughter said that during that entire time, Brutus wouldn’t leave my side. When their Dad drove in the drive, Brutus got up and ran to him and then raced back to me. He was a devoted pal.
At our last vet check, it was discovered that he had contracted heartworms, and it was too far advanced to put him through the “chemo nightmare” that is akin to that kind of treatment for a canine. We chose to love him and make the most of the days he had left. The vet guessed about ten months.
One cold winter morning, I couldn’t find Brutus. He was always at the door waiting to come in. I put on my coat, and I called to him, and suddenly I saw him crawling on the ground trying to get to the back deck. He was on the south side of our farmhouse, exactly where I wouldn’t have expected him to be. He was in bad shape. I picked him up and dragged him up the deck and into the kitchen, where I placed him on an oversized brown comforter. His legs were cold all the way up to his body. My heart ached. I lay down on the comforter and cried, petting him and whispering to him. He never warmed up By now, his legs were stiff, and he was breathing hard. His eyes were almost completely glazed over.
I made a decision that was a hard one to make. I loved this boy, loved him. He wasn’t my dog. He was my happiness, my sanity in a world gone evil. He taught me so many things, and he was the best therapist and friend for me. If I were sick, I would go outside and lie down on the ground in the sun and let the sun bake the sickness out of me. He could sense that, and he would lie down beside me tight, with his head resting in my armpit and remain there as long as I did. He was always wherever I was. Our grown children would come to the farm and say, “We know to look for Brutus to know where ma is at.”
I called the vet, explained the situation, and said that I didn’t want him to suffer. He had always been there for me, and in his time of hurt and pain and departing, I wanted to be there for him, to do the hard thing I never wanted to do.
Using the comfort to lift him, so as not to inflict any more pain on him, we loaded him in the back seat of my Ford Super Duty. Carl drove, and I sat with my faithful companion. His head was buried in my lap. When we arrived at the vets, they came out and gave him two shots. It was a long hard trip to the vets that day, and I can tell you it was an even longer tougher trip on the way home. My beautiful Brutus was gone. He was still laying on my lap, and his fur soaked up my tears. Once we were back at the farm, I dug his grave, beside the childrens playhouse, where I knew the dirt would never be disturbed and I hope that he feels the joy and love of those kids running around, and I hope one day when I cross over, he is waiting at the gate, whining and shaking for me.
Apparently, it did mean something, because within six months of the book being published, I was getting all sort of emails and text asking me when and if there was going to be a sequel. I had not planned on writing one, but I thought the idea had some merit to it. I pondered on it for a while and then one afternoon in May of 2023 I sat down at my desk and decided to let the characters go where they might would have.
Back in 2021, I wrote and published a book entitled, WHISPERS OF WINTER. I thought that it was a decent book. I wrote it so I knew the characters, and I knew where the plot was going to go, still I cried at the end of my own book. I wondered if that meant something.
I have to say here, that the book almost wrote itself. Unbeknownst to me, the characters in had in fact become very real in my mind. I would be outside working on my farm, plowing fields, tending to the sheep or cattle, cutting hay and suddenly I could see Jolie Mossman -Johnson there doing the same thing. I could hear her voice; I could feel what she would be feeling. Then, I couldn’t get back to my computer fast enough to get it all recorded on the pages.
It reminds me of a friend of mine that once explained to me the freedom and peacefulness of jumping on a Harley and allowing the road to just take you where it will, and all you have to do is lean back, feel the wind on your face, and be prepared to take in all the beauty that comes your way. Now I know, my book isn’t a Harley, but it feels much like that to me. The new characters and situations just kept popping into my mind and they would spring up from the pages exactly as i had imagined them. One night, a few weeks back, I literally saw the new man in the sequel Morgan Wheeler in my dreams. It was the coolest, thing to see. Its amazing what the mind can do when you are so focused.
On February 9, I hit the send button and sent the second book off to the publishers. I did not realize that I had sent it on this day until later that evening. I found it a personal gift that it all settled down to that day. The anniversary date of one of the hardest, emotionally shattering days of my life. A day that caused me to destroy and burn fifty years of my journals and writing. Had I been alone that day, I am sure, I would have taken myself out in a different way. I guess at the time, burning my entire life up, my whole heart, all my memories inside a large central boiler outdoor wood burner was as close as I could get to being gone. I do not condone suicide, in any way, and I pray and ache for those that have chosen that road. I am not the judge of anyone for anything they do, but i will say this, I DO UNDERSTAND all the emotional baggage and pain that comes with the terrible decision. When a person has fallen so low, that they take a permanent solution to a temporary situation. My heart aches for those people, and I will always go running towards anyone that is that low and needs to talk. My point being, I believe that it was deliberate that GOD had arranged for the sequel to be completed and sent in on the same day, February 9, one year later. I took it as a small gift just for me.
The first book. WHISPERS OF WINTER, (I refer to as W.O.W.) contained 416 pages. The sequel WHISPERS OF AUTUMN ( W.O.A.) has 450 pages. Now, all that is left is to sit back and wait for the finished product to arrive at my door, and then to hit the world wide web. This week the art department sent me a “proof” of the cover, that I am supposed to accept or refuse. I refused their first attempt.
When I submitted Whispers of Winter, I was so excited to see my project come to life, that I didn’t make any changes to their suggestions. This time, on the sequel …….Whispers of Autumn I had a few suggestions I sent back to the art department for repair. It’s crazy cool how Morgan came to me in a dream, I saw him so clearly and perfectly and it made it simple to explain to the art dept how he should look on the cover of this book. THIS COVER THAT I AM SHARING WITH YOU, IS THE FIRST PROOF AND WILL NOT BE THE FINAL COVER but i wanted to show the two of books together.
Now, the groundwork has been laid, here is the reason for this blog post. I have been BLESSED with 12 beautiful grandchildren. After I had sent in the book, some of my grand girls were playing in my office, at my desk and suddenly questions were popping up about the large manuscript sitting on the desk. I didn’t have to try and explain, as my grandson Logan began to explain that it was my second book, he then pointed to the cover of the first book that is hanging on my wall from a book signing and explained. “
Yes, here is Omie’s first book. (Omie is German for grandma) and then he explained that Whispers of Autumn would be the second one and I would probably do another canvas of that book when its finished. I was impressed that he knows all this, as I haven’t really ever told them all about it. His sister, Emmalynn who is named after me, partially, also explained where these books are stored and that I promised her, that there is a book for each of my grandchildren stored in my bedroom closet for when they are older. Then, she asked me if I was going to write anymore books. I said no, I am done, that’s the last one.
Once the question and answering session was over, I went back to the kitchen and thought nothing more about any of it. On Monday, close to the end of the day, I sat down at my desk for a few minutes and found these notes had been written by those granddaughters that day and man did those pieces of paper tug at my heart strings.
The girls had left little notes stuck to my calendar that said … ” I love you Omie” and Emmalynn had decided to go ahead and encourage me to write a few books. She had told me on Sunday, “Omie, You wrote WHISPERS OF WINTER, and now WIHSPERS OF AUTUMN, you need to write Whispers of Spring and Whispers of Summer too.
You gotta LOVE that kind of LOVE.
Sidenote: To be honest, I cannot say how many times, I hear Jolie and Morgan having a conversation together at their table. I can walk in a barn, or be working in a garden, making dinner, folding laundry and in my mind, I hear them talking amongst themselves. I am not sure if that makes me a decent writer, or a hair bit on the crazy side. Either way, it’s delicious !!
UPDATE: As I am updating this blog, Book #3 WHISPERS OF SUMMER is currently at the publishers, and we look forward to a release date of November.
Things here at the farm have gotten rather busy. Crowded…. but a sweet comfortable crowded might be a better use of the word.
It all began in March. Our youngest Daughter, a professional gal with a wonderful hubby and four children, decided they would like to build their own home . In 8 years of marriage they have purchased two homes, renovated them and then another baby came into the picture and they really wanted some more space and since Hubby is a builder it sounds like a perfect solution. We had a patch of woods that we hadn’t done anything with in 25 years so we offered it for them to build on.
They put their home on the market and it literally sold in two days. They packed all their belongings, bought a semi box “cargo trailer,” had it delivered here to our farm from Chicago, and they slowly moved everything from their home to that cargo trailer . In a neat and orderly fashion of course, as our youngest daughter and her hubby a slightly OCD, as are their children.
They have been swamped since they moved in here with us between working their jobs, raising their kids , and planning and drawing and calculating house plans. They have estimated the cost and projected when the home will be complete. This is of course NOT mentioning all the work that goes into the mortgage end of a new build. Permits, fees, etc. Its so ridiculous. Why a person cannot build their own home anymore without someone governing their every move is beyond my understanding. We have own our farm, and the ground and yet the govt still can dictate what we do with it, when and for what purpose. Not to mention the township rules and regulations that are most the time motioned and carried without the knowledge of half the township tax payers. You cannot obtain a township book of rules nor can you get a clear concise answer as to who sits on the board.
Then in May, our oldest Daughter, her wonderful hubby, and their three children were here for a typical Sunday visit at the farm. When we discovered that the neighbor down the road was selling his 80-acre farm, including the house, barn, and other assets. She inquired as to what he was asking, and, of course, in this day and age, you can barely afford to live, let alone afford 80 acres at almost $400,000. However, the farmer was enticed by the idea of selling his homestead and 25 acres to the kids, and perhaps, down the road, more land would become available. This farm is exactly 4/10 of a mile due north of the farm where she was raised — our farm —so everyone was beyond excited.
Plans began immediately for minor repairs to their current home and it was also placed on the market. Within 10 days , their home sold, and now their family was beginning the process of packing their home and moving within 30 days.
The farmer was adamant that they have their financing in order and ready to make the purchase by mid-June. And they were. Apparently however when you live somewhere for over 41 years moving out when you and your spouse are in your early 70’s isn’t as simple as the previous owner thought it would be.
There were a few more glitches in the set up and suddenly it was time for our Oldest Daughter and her Hubby and kids to be OUT of their home. They had nowhere to move their things or themselves as they had been planning all this time to go straight from their beautiful, 3 bedroom, 2 bath , fairly new home into a very neglected farmhouse, and live in it as they remodeled. Something a million farm families have done through the years.
They understood the cleanup process and renovations could be extensive, but they were willing and ready to jump in with both feet. As life happens, things have slowed to a crawl, the previous owner has drug his feet regarding his end of appointments, appraisals, etc . and decisions had to be made rather quickly. So…..
I cleaned everything out of our
two-car attached garage, and Daughter and Hubby have moved all their worldly possessions into it. It is a tight fit to say the least but we made it happen. Everything they own is in there, and they tried to arrange things so they could keep their freezer plugged in and their dressers lining the outside edge of the garage so they can get to their clothes as they need them. After all its ONLY FOR 2 WEEKS.
It’s been a wonderfully loud, chaotic experience. Seven of our 12 Grandchildren are here for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day, as it is summer and school hasn’t begun yet. They all play together, in the 2-story playhouse we built, they all fight together, and they all beg to have sleep overs with each other though they live on the same piece of property for now. You got to love how a child’s mind works.
Everyone has worked together, and worked tirelessly to make the renovations happen quickly so they can move into their dream home. Unfortunately, their dream home has been hiding quite a few things behind its walls, under its floors etc, so this once neglected home, had now been basically torn down to the studs and built back up INCLUDING replacing some of the studs themselves. We have broken and removed several layers of a kitchen floor which included 4 inches of concrete poured over 3 layers of wood flooring. The main box plates of the home have been cut out and replaced in some sections. Windows have been replaced, entire walls have been torn off the exterior of the house, re built and replaced. It has been a huge undertaking but the kids have continued to plugged away at it, morning, and night, after work, on weekends, in the rain and heat and now the winter snows. It has been just over 7.5 months, and it looks as though their move in date has arrived.
In time, everyone will laugh about all this major renovation. They will “REMEMBER WHEN” they did this or that to their home. Our oldest Daughter, will fill photo albums just as I did 24 years ago with tons of before and after pictures, and one day her own children will see those pictures, and barely recall the moments. Our own three children were 10, 7, and 6, when we bought our farm, and though they had to endure all the renovation process here their entire lives, it’s surprising how much of it they don’t recall. They were young kids, turned loose on farm, and spent their days exploring, creating, and entertaining themselves. And that is how it’s supposed to be.
Its Life. History does repeat itself in the most comical ways, and the circle of life continues to spin.
For almost 8 months we lived with dressers in every room, extra dogs, a cat, and three young kids about our feet. We all endured mountains of laundry and dishes, and endured everything from screams of delight to screams of frustration. All in all, we know this is probably the last time either of our girls will “Be home” at the same time . Our oldest daughter will be living 4/10 of a mile north of us and our youngest daughter will be living south of us just across the corn field . All that is left to do, if eventually talk our Son, his Wife and 5 children into moving into our little township.
This is OUR family township. Just due north about 3 miles My Fathers parents bought a small farm in 1946 when my Dad was ten years old.
Dad has lived on that same farm for 70 years now. It is the same farm that He also raised myself and my three brothers.
Interesting side note is that all 4 of us kids live on this same stretch of road, in the same township. It Wasn’t planned that way, two of us bought farms on this road and two bought property from our Dad to build on. Its how God planned it to be.
Now 2 of our 3 children are doing the same. Yes, we must surely make room for our Only son and his family one day, when they want to be in the “hood” also. We are BLESSED.
Our Dad has been playing guitar since He was 14. He comes from musically inclined people. His Dad’s father played the Violin, and his Mom’s Dad, Granddad Fred, played guitar. My Dad lost his own father when he was ten years old. Such a terrible loss for a child. As He grew up, He was an honor student all through school, won Boys State and was among the top ten seniors for His graduating class of 1955.
He held multiple jobs after school and on weekends and helped his mom with the two smaller children as the 4 older siblings were already married or had moved out and started their own loves. He bought the first television the family ever had, the first car, brought the “outhouse” inside. Added to an old shed that his Dad had built to make his moms kitchen larger. His parents had seven children, half were married and having babies so his Mom needed the space. Before graduation from High School He had bought his first 40 acre field just a stone’s throw up the road.
Merle is one of my Dads older brothers. In fact He was 15 years than my Dad. One day Merle was in search of some extra cash. Their Mom (Doris) told my Uncle she would give him $5.00 for his old Silver tone guitar if he would show Jim one chord on it before he left that day. The deal was done, the dye was cast . From then on My dad would go visit with his Granddad Riley (Doris’ Dad… ) and Grandpa Fred would teach my Dad how to listen for the changes in a song and taught him many other chords. Time marched on.
Dad played that old Silvertone guitar for quite a few years. Then one day He bought himself a New Gibson Acoustic /Electric Guitar for $300.00 made in Kalamazoo Mich. He played it a few years, and around the age of 24 or 25 He was talking with a man who was a well-known guitar picker in the area by the name of Lloyd Moore. Lloyd showed my Dad his Gretsch guitar and what a beautiful sound it made, played easy etc. Dad fell in love and had to have one of his own. He went to Kalamazoo again only this time He traded his fairly new Gibson in on this used Black and White Duo-Jet Gretsch. They gave him 100.00 for his NEW Gibson and Dad financed another 200.00 on this USED Gretsch. He was elated.
By 17 years old Dad was playing in country bands and most the time He played one or two nights a weekend and got paid for doing it. That became the norm for Dad, and all the years we grew up He and mom were usually off to play music every Friday and or Saturday night. Sometimes on a Sunday evening but those dates were rare. Today Dad is 80 years young as of this writing, and He still plays and sings beautifully. He is a very gifted man.
It would be difficult to come up with a total price for all that Black and White Gretsch has paid for over the years. It help support His family of six, helped stretch his weekly pay checks so he could plant crops, trade tractors, buy groceries, school clothes, livestock, feed etc. It was his PERMANENT second job that he LOVED. He always said “playing a guitar was like having an old friend just waiting in the corner for you, and it could lighten up the darkest days.
HE IS THE LEADER OF THE BAND
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I am sure I heard his beautiful “Marty Robbins” voice the whole 9 months my mom carried me. As a toddler and up through the years until I moved out of my childhood home at 18, we four children could hear my Dad playing his guitar late into the night. It was no doubt the only time He had to spend with his “Beloved” guitar as He was a working man from 5 to 5 every day, and came home to farm the fields way past dark thirty every evening. Also, in His “Spare time” He dabbled in taxidermy, a craft He picked up around the age of 15, and today has more ribbons and awards than He can display on his walls. It too, is a hobby that has served him well, and us Proud.
Our Dad wears many hats and unlike some, He has worn most of them with much success. I don’t mean to make Him sound perfect. As I know, no one is…however, I will confess that you will walk a LONG HARD MILE in the desert sun to find a man of such good character, honest and steadfast. His flaws, if any, are few and far between. He is just one of the last really great men, unselfish men. An Icon.
HE IS OUR FATHER, OUR DAD, OUR FRIEND, OUR LEADER
As young teens, us four kids would sit around the table in the old farmhouse and chat with Dad about school, work, etc and sooner or later He would ask “Hey have you kids heard that new song by George Strait or Alan Jackson, I need to learn it by Saturday night, people keep asking for it. And just like that our Kitchen table became a rehearsal stage. We would sit and tell him the words as He strummed and picked to get the tune down just right. He would glance in our direction every few moments for an approving nod that He had the tune right. This was a normal in our home.
As we sang with Dad, we each would listened to him so intently that we would mimic His exact way of singing. His exact way of putting a “marty robbins ending” to most country songs he sang, and we would try to elevate our voices at the same exact part in a song that he did. We would even toss our heads back or off to the side the same way He did when he sang. And ever so slowly it began to happen. We “kids” starting picking up Dads guitar and playing it during his absence. He didn’t exactly endorse the idea, but He didn’t rule it off limits either. Poor Man, He would reach for His Gretsch at the end of a long day, or a rainy day to play it and it was ALWAYS out of tune from one of us hammering on it.
(Side note:)******************************
The farm house He was raised in since May of 1946 , and was still living in, and all of us kids were raised in caught fire on January 12, 1985. It was a Saturday just about noon, and Dad was at National Guard Drill. I called the Armory to get a message to Him over the phone about the fire, that everyone was ok but ALL WAS GONE. To this day I cannot imagine what it must have been like for him to top the hill, almost home and look down and where His childhood home stood for years , the large farmhouse was completely gone, all that remained was the chimney from a new fireplace he hired a man to built in 1976. Center brick was a Bi- centennial 1776-1976
He took it all in stride. I remember watching Him walk around the smoking pile of ashes in his army clothes . He looked over at his brother in law and said “Damn Dale, I think I’m going to have to pitch a tent”. He never cried about it, never yelled or cussed about it. It was done, it was finished, no one was hurt, so we all moved forward . BEHIND OUR LEADER.
I learned a lot about life from my Dad, that is a given, in fact all four of us kids did. Yet, this day , along with many other moments has remained etched in mind. We walked together up the road, to that same piece of property He bought in High School where now I lived with my little family in a old single wide trailer. He and
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Mom, and three brothers would set up camp with us for the next 6 months. We had a small daughter and had just found out we were expecting another baby the day before the fire. It was tight living for sure, but it was enjoyable and made many a good memory. Dad continued to be more touched by the generosity of others, all the food, and clothes, and offers of money then the loss of his boyhood home. That kind of thoughtfulness filled his eyes with water that threatened to escape down his face. Still, He soldiered on in true JOHN WAYNE fashion.
There were a FEW THINGS, my younger brothers were able to salvage before the fire consumed the entire home. They pulled a mounted Caribou and a mounted moose head from the walls of our living room, and grabbed 5 guitars and rushed out the front door sitting them far away from the fire in a snow bank as they could. Dads Gretsch was one of the prized saves that day. OUR LEADER STILL HAD HIS GUITAR
Did I mention Dad was scheduled to play music that same cold January Night. He came home that afternoon in his army fatigues and it was literally all he had left . The fire had taken everything. Between noon and 6 p.m. there was an entire “tip out” in our 1972 New Moon Single wide trailer that was packed with clothes and food for my parents and three brothers
In true Redneck style, there was such an overflow of everything, Dads resourcefulness was still in tact, and we used the roof of our trailer for an additional refrigerator for months. Dad assured us all that frozen milk would thaw quickly once it sat in the cereal bowl. LOL
Dad went to play that night in black pants that were too short, a white button shirt that was too big and cowboy boots that were too large for his size 8 foot and left him slipping and sliding on the snow and ice, but He left with his Gretsch in hand and played just as planned. He never whispered a word to anyone. I remember telling myself that evening as Dad drove out of my drive way, If He never shed a tear over losing his childhood home, I would not cry over losing that same home from my own childhood. It was more his home than ours. He lost a lot of precious possessions in that fire. Some things that belonged to his Dad, things from his school days, a silver watch with diamonds where the numbers would normally be from a company that appreciated his dedication and dependability. Those things don’t come back and yet still He continued to say “It was just a home and things , that family could not be replaced. We were fortunate”.
Dad came home that night, and told us how Ann, the band leader had secretly passed the word about the fire and it being a total loss. After midnight while he was packing up his Gretsch, the amps etc Ann handed him an envelope full of cash . He was blown away and kept telling her that He didn’t need it, He was insured and we would all be fine, to please give it back to the people. Of course She could not do that, and then the people who followed Dad and the band wherever they played began walking up to him and shaking his hand, offering campers, R V’s more cash etc. “Whatever you need Jim, let us know” they all kept saying. He was shocked and so incredibly touched by these kinds of moments. The following morning, we all sat at MY kitchen table, drank coffee together as we usually did, and listened as Dad retold the events of that evening. He and I sat for 3 evening and hand wrote over 200 thank you cards.
************************************
I used to joke as a young teenager that Country Music ran through my veins before the blood did. As I married and had three children of my own they would often laugh at me when their friends were here as they said I could come with a song about anything. Our youngest girl would have friends over to spend the night and they would test me by saying ” how about a song about this or that” and some old song would come rolling out of my head and mouth like butter.
I refer to myself as a WORDSMITH of sorts. I have been journaling for nearly 42 years. I come from a long of writers, one being my great, great, Grandfather who kept a journal and wrote in it every single day during his years served in the great Civil War. It amazes me still today to read his writings. We pick up a pen and paper and take it so much for granted but over 154 years ago, paper was scarce and a pencil was a prized
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possession. Great, Great, Grandpa Jim Riley would pull his journal from its cold, wet, dirty, leather pouch and write the days happenings, tuck it back away safely and eat his few bits of rationed food or pick up his gun and fight or walk , whatever the orders were. I am still in awe of the man, his writings and his life.
Words have always captured my heart, songs are just poetry just set to music. I loved the stories and pictures a song could create in my mind. A song can describe so many feelings, and memories, and dreams. The words of a song can change lives, bring people together, heal a wound, and help you not feel so alone. Songs NEVER really die. The words and melodies live on long after we are gone.
Fast forward to today. I am a 55-year-old mother of three grown Kids who grew up listening to me play an acoustic Ovation guitar. The older we get it seems like the more hectic our lives become and though I have toyed with the idea several times of buying myself an electric guitar I have never done so. Figuring that it would play harder, or I just didn’t feel that something that extravagant was necessary for me. The acoustic was “ good enough”, and I learned early on that keeping my expectations lower in life tends to ward off a lot of disappointment.
We have 12 grandchildren all under the age of 12 and its like a BIG HAPPY CIRCUS whenever we are all together. The little children will see my guitars, ask me to play for them and then of course they want to play too. I let them pound or pluck the strings for a little while. They love to sing songs with me all the time…….but over the past decade I have allowed some unfavorable, non-encouraging words to put a halt to my playing or singing in front of anyone. Except the grand babies or I generally play when there is no one else around.
This last September while I was running the combine picking soy beans I was listening to music with my headphones and it suddenly occurred to me that I am not getting any younger. I had run out of excuses and decided I am done with living my only life around what others think or say. We only get ONE LIFE. So, I was going to seriously look into buying myself an electric guitar. I have only been wanting for 36 years.
I jumped on Ebay. I realized that Les Paul and Guild, Gibson are all great brands of guitars but my mind was set on having my own Gretsch. A ceremonial passing of the torch so to speak. Like My Dad, the LEADER OF MY HEART.
Guitars like his are Vintage, and not affordable for a “FarmHER” like me of little means. I opted for a Gretsch that wasn’t vintage, but still affordable. I hunted for the better part of two months. Completed a ton of research as to the make and models, and how Gretsch even came to be. Thank God for Google. I can just educate myself all day from the convenience of my kitchen table while I drink untold cups of coffee.
Finally I found one. It was up for Auction, and it could possibly be affordable for this farmgal. I did NOT bid. I waited and watched as the days closed in, the hours, and in the last fleeting seconds I posted a one time bid as high as I was financially able to go, I hit the “Confirm bid” button with 25 seconds left on the count down and I watched the amount on that Gretsch rise and rise and the seconds counting down 5,4,3,2, and BAM……THE SOUND OF THE WINNING BID AND A LITTLE SIGN THAT SAID “YOU HAVE WON” FLASHED ACROSSED THE TOP OF MY PHONE. I SCREAMED WITH DELIGHT AND EXCITMENT. Our oldest daughter and grandbabies were here at the time and they cheered right along with me though I know those little hearts didn’t know why I was celebrating.
DAUGHTER OF…….. THE LEADER OF THE BAND … finally has her own GRETSCH.
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My three brothers and I had the greatest privilege growing up. We were able to watch the day by day growth of another kind of legend. Fashioned by years of hard work, honesty, integrity, good humor most of the time, unfailing patience , understanding and love. The quiet LIVING LEGEND of our Father James Arthur Haas . He is one of the few GOOD GUYS left in this world gone crazy.
This is Dad Playing his Newer Gretsch in 2017. The vintage Duo Jet has been safely retired.
This is me, playing with Dads Vintage Duo Jet Gretsch 2017
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My 125th Anniversary Edition arrived Just before Christmas 2017. My young Grandson who is only 4 took the pictures of me opening it and playing it for the first time…Good Job Drew!!
This picture below is of My Dad, playing My Gretsch….. what a beautiful, priceless picture this is for me. I will treasure it always. He kept saying “its a nice guitar, great sound, I really like it”.
On January 13, 2018 someone crossed the center line on icy roads and totaled our white Ford F250 Super Duty, Diesel King Ranch Truck. There were injuries, lots of healing time, but no fatalities.
On February 7th, we bought another Ford F250 Super Duty Diesel truck, when we arrived home and I was looking out our kitchen window at the truck , and I thought the new/used truck looked like the same color as my Gretsch. Of course, I had to find out. I carried the guitar stand and my Gretsch outside and took this picture. It’s pretty cool that all three of my favorite things are in this snapshot. A Ford, A Power Stroke 6.7 Diesel engine, and MY FIRST GRETSCH.
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There is a song called the LEADER OF THE BAND. By Dan Fogelberg.
My brothers and I cannot hear it that we do not think of our Dad. My Brother Bryan and I used to try to sing it together, but neither of us can make it through the whole song. It hits too closely to our hearts. These are the words of that song:
An only child alone and wild, a cabinet makers son, his hands were meant for different work an his heart was known to none. He left his home and and went his lone and solitary way, but he gave to me a gift I know I never can repay.
A quiet man of music, denied a simpler fate, He tried to be a solider once, and his music had to wait, He earned his love through discipline, a thundering velvet hand. His gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand.
CHORUS:
The Leader of the band is tired, and his eyes are growing older, but his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul, My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man, I’m just the living legacy to the Leader of the Band.
My Brothers lives were different, for they heard another call. One went to Chicago and the other to St. Paul. And I’m in Colorado, when I’m not in some hotel, Living out this life I choose and come to know so well.
I thank you for your music, and your stories of the road, I thankyou for the freedom when it came my time to go. I thank you for your kindess and the times when you got tough, And PAPA I don’t think I said I love you near enough.
The Leader of the Band is tired and His eyes are growing old, but his blood runs through my instrument and his songs are in my soul, My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man…..I JUST the living legacy to the leader of the band.
WE ARE THE LIVING LEGACY TO THE LEADER OF THE BAND
**How fortunate we have been, to live and grow, and watch, and mimic a Beautiful Leader, A Beautiful Father and Friend. OUR DAD.
Back in 1975, my Dad worked for a small plastic injection company. The owner , Mel, was a real penny pincher from way back. Our Dad said, He would pay his electric just before it was to be disconnected so he could keep his money as long as possible. And, He was known to break pencils in half rather than give anyone a whole one. He was an odd, RICH man.
Mel, had a mini-motorhome. He wanted to trade it in on a newer larger unit but He said the Dealer ships were hesitant to trade it as the miles were too low on it. Our Dad had been planning a family vacation, and wanted to take us all out west to see the Badlands, Mt Rushmore, Rapid City, etc. So, after a lot of coaxing from Mel , Dad finally agreed to take the mini motorhome on our trip out west.
Early one summer morning, with the mini motor home loaded up with our clothes, light groceries and a few essentials, four kids and two parents we embarked upon the journey. My Dad was 39 that year, Mom was 33… Older Brother Stan was 14, I was 13, brother Bryan was 10 and the baby of our tribe Jimmy was 5.
Let me begin, first by explaining that when it comes to men, you wont find a better man, more intelligent , with super common sense, honest, steel blue and blade straight than my Dad.
He does however have the faintest little sin. He can cuss like a blacksmith when he’s frustrated or angry. They are only words to him…..its what he does when he is fed up with the set up. When he’s fighting time or animals. He never calls people these names, I have NEVER known him to belittle anyone, and He doesn’t beat on people or animals….In fact the older I get the funnier the moments seem sometimes when I look back on them now.
I will confess, as a child that it would scare me, I would get all nerved up and pray for bedtime because that was the time everything was ok. In my child like mind, I thought if Dad was THAT upset surely the sky was going to crack open and fall down, or something equally serious was about to happen. With years comes wisdom and knowledge, and with years I have learned that not only was this Dads way of dealing with things, but all four of us kids would come to “deal” with things that same way as adults ourselves.
We are somewhat proud of it actually, like it was right of passage or something . And if this is our biggest sin, well then bully for us in a world gone mad.
Dad gave us children the quick run down of the motorhome and how we needed to be very careful with it as it wasn’t ours, and what a privilege it was to be able to travel is something so wonderful. The gas mileage of course really was atrocious. And gas was pretty expensive that summer. We heard him talking, we saw his lips moving , we even nodded in agreement, but we were kids, country kids going to the big city.
So the trip began, and we weren’t 6 miles down the road, the boys got to scuffling around and busted the gold plexi-glass that separated the kitchen sink from the couch. DAD WAS SLIGHTLY IRRITATED BUT KEPT DRIVING.
We traveled during the days, parked in KOA camps at night, used bathhouses, and explored everything and anything whenever Dad would stop.
A trip out west from Lower Michigan is a bit of a haul. With four kids on board, we colored, read comics, fought, and ask a million times “Are we there yet”. Our oldest brother Stan, was the ring leader of our circus. He loved to have fun in quiet ways, and so one morning early, while we were all stretched out in the sleeper over the drivers cabin He came up with a brilliant plan.
He ripped the back cover off of one of our coloring books, with red crayon he wrote “HONK IF YOU ARE FROM MICHIGAN. My part in HIS brilliant plan was to put it in the back window so people could see it. I jumped down , went to very back of the motor home to the bathroom, lifted the blind, placed the “poster” in the bathroom window using a band Aid for tape and put the blind back down.
Us kids would count as the cars would pass and honk…there weren’t that many trust me. What’s funny about this story is…. if you could have seen it through the eyes of the man driving the motor home.
As per most kids, as time passed we forgot about our funny little prank. Now and then We heard Dad saying things to Mom like:
“What the hell is wrong with people, why are they honking. Do you think we are dragging something? Maybe we have a low tire, or He would even comment and say things like
” Look kids that cars from Michigan too”. This went on the entire day. Every now and then Dad would pull the vehicle over, get out and walk around the motor home checking tires, looking underneath it. We were kids. We had already forgotten what we had put in the window. We thought there was really something wrong with the motorhome and we would have to go home and not be able finish the trip.
We were just as concerned and worried as Dad was. Every few hours He would pull off again and check out the vehicle again to no avail. Late into the afternoon, we stopped for gas and to get a few things that Mom could cook at the KOA camp once we checked in a few hours up the road. Dad was pumping gas. Us four kids were above the driver cabin talking and reading books, rolling around and fighting over silly , small things.
All the sudden the back door of the motor home opened up instead of his drivers door. Cussing as he climbed the metal steps Dad went to the bathroom, pulled up the blind, and ripped the sign out of the bathroom window. He told us kids that every time he heard someone honking he thought something was wrong with the vehicle and ask us why we didn’t tell him about the sign. We just stared at him. We were kids…….. we forgot it ten minutes after we did it.
DAD WAS SLIGHTLY IRRITATED BUT KEPT DRIVING.
Through the years, Dad would tell this story to others, or just be remising about it at the supper table and we all would laugh.
As we travel along, there were always signs that said, “Wall Drugs 1300 miles, visit Wall Drug South Dakota. We kept asking Dad what is this place called Wall Drugs and he would just say “you will see when we get there”. And we did.
It was here, that I got my absolute first pair of Levis’ . I had never heard of them prior to this. I was 13. Dad told us kids he was buying us all a pair of jeans, and that we should take a few pairs into a changing room and try them on . To this day, I can still feel the way they felt, new and dark, crisp, with shiny silver rivets and the infamous red tag . They fit me like they were made for me. I loved those jeans, and I wore them for years and years. When I married I still had them.
Also that day, my Dad was buying one of my brothers a pocket knife and told me I should pick out a turquoise ring. Talk about a spoiling. Us four kids were LOVING Wall Drugs in South Dakota.
I chose a ring that looked similar to a class ring. I wore that ring and never took it off. At my wedding I wore it, during the birth of our three children I wore it, and I still have it today and though I don’t wear it much , it is one of my most prized possessions. It is from the “Fred Harvey Era Collection” and has thunderbirds imprinted on both sides and a perfectly square turquoise stone on top. It cost the same as my age then…I remember. 13.00 . Today I found it on ebay and it is a collectors piece and values for around 96.00.
We had lots of fun on that trip. On January 12, 1985 our old farmhouse caught fire and burned completely to the ground. Along with other memorabilia were the photos from this trip. Sadly lost forever, but In my mind I still the pictures we took.
We stopped at the BADLANDS. Where my Dad told us kids to stay up on the trail but he wondered way down in between all the curves and twists that the boulders made. Always looking for some ancient treasure. There was Dad way down at the bottom, holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee up in the air as if to say “cheers” . I snapped that photo. Later, we read signs all along the route that specifically stated NOT to cross the rail and to stray on the path due to rattler snakes were everywhere.
We traveled to Mount Rushmore. Dad talked about the history of it all off and on all the way out west. We were all so excited to be able to see it in person. On the morning we arrived so did about 400 bikers. Dad wasn’t comfortable with the amount of people there, they had taken up the whole parking lot and were not friendly or willing to move or make room for others. So, we viewed MT Rushmore from the motorhome windows and we moved on down the road.
We stopped at CRAZY HORSE in the Black HIlls, of Custer Country , South Dakota. It is a Memorial on a mountain still under private construction . It is suppose to depict “Crazy Horse, an Oglala Lakota Warrior, riding a horse pointing into the distance. A man named Korczak Ziolkowski began the work in 1948. When it is complete, it will be the largest mountain carving in South Dakota and the world. It is an awesome sight to behold, emerging from the granite and iron is the likeness of a legendary leader, Crazy Horse is said to be pointing towards a dream of commitment, a fervent legacy and proud future.
This stop was a blast for us four farm kids from Michigan. We were able to get out and walk, explore and see movies on how the man was using dynamite to blast the monstrous rock formations.
We traveled through and around mountains that Mom claimed you could go around with the front of the motorhome and see your tail end coming around as you made the turn. She did not like the mountains at all, and at one point she laid down in the isle of the motorhome so she couldn’t see where Dad was driving.
One tunnel we went through was sooo tight, that even with a MINI motorhome Dad was afraid we wouldn’t clear and He sure didn’t want to scratch up Mels’s vehicle. So Stan got out and climbed up the ladder on the back of the unit, and rode that way through the tunnel. I stuck my head out the bathroom window and repeated to Dad whatever Stan said……..hold it, slow, slow, to the left, back to the right…. total redneck thing to do, but the memories here are SOLID GOLD.
One of our last nights out west, at a KOA camp, a storm came rolling in fast and hard. Lightning, lots of thunder and wind……our motorhome bounced and rocked back and forth. We had all gone to the cement bath houses for showers. Mom and I were last. While Mom was showering, I was waiting with a towel wrapped around me and all the sudden the doors blew open and the shower curtains went up in the air and mother yelled for me to shut the doors….when I tried to get BOTH the bath house doors closed, the wind was so fierce it stole my towel and flung me naked out the door and on to the cement apron. No one else was outside at the moment, in fact , normal smart people were tucked away safely in their motor homes.
Not us country folks, we never would let a little storm stop us……. oh my goodness today it hilarious to write about, at 13 I assure you I did not find it funny at all. I was mortified over and over every time my mother HAD to repeat the story to someone.
As a family, we took a several short trips through the years. One year up near Grayling Mich when Dad was in the National Guard and at Summer camp , we rented a cabin near by and fished for sun fish all day and saw a log church built deep in the woods with a glass cross in the peak of the building….some fun times.
Nothing ever stands out in my mind as much as our Trip Out West as a family. My first pair of store bought Jeans…(Levi’s) and a small sterling silver/turquoise ring from my Dad….a man that I still deeply respect, and love and cherish. I am the person I am today because I tried so fervently to emulate his ways. His wisdom, His kindness towards others, His self reliance , His honesty and the integrity he uses when dealing with people.
Standing Behind our Ring Leader, our older Brother Stan
whispersofmylife.com 
