This morning, I heard a vehicle in my driveway. I opened the door just in time to see a van pulling away and a brightly striped gift bag sitting on the lawn. I called out, and the van stopped. It was
Brenda Hemenway-Hollenbeck, she and I went to school together. Her 5th birthday party was the very first birthday party I was ever invited to, and I remember every detail of that special day.
While I was there, her dad, Jay, asked when my birthday was. When I told him November 7th, he burst into laughter because it was his birthday too. For years afterward, Jay would call me early every November 7th and sing “Happy Birthday to me” . I was painfully shy back then and always a little embarrassed, but today those memories make me smile.
Jay was one of those genuinely good men—honest as fire, hardworking, humble, and always quick with a laugh.
Marie was every bit his equal, working tirelessly beside him on the farm and inside the home. I admired her so much that I used to tell her I wanted to grow up to be just like her.
Life has a way of carrying us in different directions. We raise children, welcome grandchildren, shoulder responsibilities, and before we know it, years have quietly slipped by.
Brenda and I now live only a few miles apart, and when I realized it was her sitting in my driveway, I literally squealed with delight.
After losing both of her parents, Brenda has been sorting through the treasures her mother carefully saved. In the middle of all the responsibilities already on her plate, she found a stack of childhood drawings from classmates. She took the time to frame one that I had colored for her all those years ago and brought it to me today.
I don’t have anything else from my childhood like this. We had very few photographs to begin with, and when my parents’ farmhouse burned in 1985, whatever memories may have remained were lost.
Now, this picture hangs above my coffee station, and every time I see it, it reminds me of a little girl, a birthday party, and a family who showed kindness without ever knowing how much it would be remembered.
Seeing Brenda again and wrapping my arms around her was a gift all by itself.
Brenda is so very much Jay and Marie’s daughter—”their wonderful surprise ending to their baby years. They would be incredibly proud of the strong, kind, humble, hardworking woman she has become.I am PROUD TO KNOW HER. She is a wonderful woman.
SIDE NOTE FROM ME, THE WRITER: I find it comical that at that young age, I was all about mail, a newspaper and a letter for me. Today, I call myself a wordsmith, but other may call me a writer. I have written four books, The Whispers Series/Collection and I have been writing in journals for over five decades.
Writing is cheap therapy, and it helps record so you can relive the moments again later in life. It can be a wonderful trait to nututre. I am not so much of a SCRAPBOOK Journalist, more life just write, create some art work in some spaces unless there were tickets from a restaurant where I went with someone special, or a note the grandchildren left me.
A few years ago, most of those journals burned i a fire, and at the time I was ok with it, it hurt but I dealt with it. Today, I mourn all the baby shower invites, my dad’s old drivers’ licenses, my great grandmothers license photo of the 12 grandbabies when they were still growing in their momma’s belly. What a tragic loss and at the same time…who would have read them beside me. No one. Therefore I suppose it removed one more thing for others to have to sort through if I don’t get a chance to do it myself before I leave this earthly dwelling.
It would appear to this writer, that writing has been in my blood all along. My great, great grandfather wrote a book in 1919, his granddaughter was a writer, (I have books of her journals and probably 100 of her poems and her precious beautiful paintings. and her granddaughter (me) is a writer, of books, poetry, and I write for the local newspaper. It’s a wonderful legacy. I hope I live to see who will carry this writers torch forward.
The next time you walk past an old tree, stop for just a moment.
Run your hand across its rough bark. Lean against it. Wrap your arms around it and hold on tightly.
It may sound a little foolish, but science says it isn’t.
Researchers have found that spending time with trees can lower our blood pressure, reduce stress, strengthen our immune system, quiet anxious thoughts, and even lift our mood.
Simply standing among them, breathing their fragrance, and touching their bark has a remarkable way of calming both body and soul.
Trees ask nothing of us. They simply stand. Through scorching summers, bitter winters, fierce winds, and pounding rains, they remain faithful. Year after year, they offer shade on the hottest days, shelter for birds and wildlife, and the oxygen every one of us depends upon without giving it a second thought.
And yet, everywhere the eye can see, there is another fenceline torn out, more beautiful trees torn from the ground. Another beautiful canopy of towering maples or oaks just torn by their roots, and pushed into a brush pile and burned. There are many trees taken from storms to cut up for firewood, but to take out fencelines and trees that have lined the roadway just because you want to should be illegal. It changes the entire ecosystem. NOT to mention, people who tear out fencelines and small forests seem unaffected by the destruction elsewhere, but strategically plant trees all around their property lines and homes. EVERYONE DESERVES TO KEEP THEIR BORDERS, THEIR BOUNDARIES, THEIR WIND BREAKS, AND THE WILDLIFE DESERVE TO DWELL IN PEACE
In Germany, you are not allowed to take down a tree without permission from the local authorities. The tree has to be very old, leaning heavily, or have the potential of falling on a building. Otherwise, you are instructed to trim it up and LIVE WITH IT, not against it. Oh, that American could be that smart.
In Michigan last year, 100,000 acres of agricultural ground was taken up for homes, factors, data centers, solar and wind farms. America is going to lose the ability one day to feed the masses of people, who might believe that Walmart and Meijer have a garden on their roofs the size of China. Ground is sacred. Trees are sacred. They break the wind, shelter wildlife, protect our soil, and quietly remind us that NOT EVERYTHING VALUABLE CAN BE MEASURED IN DOLLARS.
A tree is far more than wood.
It is clean air.
It is cool shade on a July afternoon.
It is a nesting place for birds, a home for squirrels, a windbreak for cattle, and a silent witness to generations that came before us, and the ones that will come long after we are gone.
Perhaps we’ve become so busy building “bigger, better, brighter” futures that we’ve forgotten to protect what has quietly protected us for thousands of years.
Before you reach for the chainsaw, reach for the pruning shears first if you can. If the tree is standing and alive, save it; work around it. Leave the oxygen and shade. We need to care for the trees and protect them.
Go out and plant a tree…. TODAY…. PLANT TWO.
Someday, someone you will never meet will stand beneath its branches, take a deep breath, lean against its trunk… and find exactly the peace, the oxygen and the cooling shade they needed.
Notice the similarities between a tree’s biological design and that of a human. It’s remarkable to study. I am PROUD that I come from a long line of ” tree-hugging, respect the land, and leave it better than when you found it” kind of people.
We are only the custodians of the land, like those before us and those who come after us.
Look at our hand against a tree’s veiny branches, our heart and the tree’s main
Arteries that feed it; look at our fingers strong and stable, like the roots of a tree.
WHO KNEW… that in 2026 there are still knights in shining armor? In my case, he drives a blue GMC pickup truck. Growing up on a farm with three brothers, there was no such thing as being “Daddy’s little girl.” We all cut wood, loaded pigs and cattle, baled hay, and worked side by side. Dad treated us all the same, and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I watched that man almost under a microscope. The way he talked, the way he laughed, the way he figured things out. I honestly believed there wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix with a little baling wire and a pair of pliers. That country-boy ingenuity served him well, and it shaped the rest of us too. Thirty-four years ago, I bought this farm from my beloved Burton, and I’ve spent every day since trying to farm the way he did. Farming can be physically, mentally, and financially exhausting—but it’s a life I love. Today I picked up a couple of tons of fertilizer for my field corn. The heat has been relentless, and after working in the fields all week, I now fought with the spreader for 30 minutes in the hot sun trying to get the auger to engage. By noon, hot, frustrated, and out of energy, I called Dad. When he answered, I almost cried with relief. I explained what was happening and asked if he remembered what he’d done with one of these spreaders this spring, at his farm. He thought for a moment, then simply said, “Sharon and I were just walking out the door headed to Three Rivers. You’re on the way. I’ll swing by your place.” And just like that…here came my knight in shining armor. He climbed out of that blue GMC, walked over, studied the spreader for a minute, and said, “I think you’re right. This handle has to come up.” He pulled from the top while I got down on my knees and pushed from below. Together we finally broke it loose and locked it into place. I thanked him over and over, and Like only my dad could, he smiled and said, “Glad to help. Glad you called. Give it a try, and if it works, just keep going. Don’t worry about us.” Those simple words meant more than he’ll ever know. For 64 years, I have admired this man. I stayed out of trouble growing up—not because I was afraid of getting caught, but because I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to him while I was off making foolish choices. I’ve spent my entire life loving him, respecting him, and quietly worrying about the day I might have to live without him. Every single day, I thank God that He gave us four children a father like this. A man of integrity. A man of humility. A man who has always shown us that strength isn’t measured by words, but by showing up when someone needs you. How wonderfully precious it is that, even today, I can still pick up the phone, call my dad, and before long, here he comes—with decades of wisdom, weathered hands, a humble heart, and enough know-how to solve another problem. Some people call them heroes. I simply call him Dad. And every single day, I NEVER stop being grateful for James Arthur Haas being my dad.
I sometimes wonder if people realize there are still “Mom and Pop” farms scattered across the countryside. Not every farmer is planting ten thousand acres with satellite-guided equipment and tractors that cost more than houses. Some of us are still farming a few hundred acres or less, using older equipment and doing things much the way our parents and grandparents did. It is physically demanding. We are the small potatoes of agriculture. Not the big baking potatoes, either—I’m talking about the little ones you toss into soups and stews. Pardon the potato reference; that’s my farming life and kitchen life colliding. Modern agriculture is impressive. Large operations have become businesses that require considerable management, planning, and investment. Their challenges are different from ours. But those of us running smaller farms, like my dad, who still farms at the age of 88.5 years young, we face our own set of struggles. This spring has been especially demanding. I consider myself a vintage FarmHER. While my brothers and I were raised on John Deere tractors and Ford pickup trucks, somewhere along the way I fell in love with Oliver tractors and Dodge trucks. I’m sure that is a direct influence that my beloved Burton had on my life, from whom I bought this farm. His parents bought this farm in 1936, Burt inherited it in 1944, and we bought it in 1994. (Only three owners in 90 years). My tractors are old, but I love them. If it were possible to hug a piece of farm equipment, I probably would. Then again, I’m also the kind of person who hugs trees. (Don’t laugh until you’ve tried it. Walk outside, wrap your arms around a tree, lean your cheek against the bark, and take a deep breath. You’ll feel it clear down to your toes.) This spring, my Oliver 1855 developed a fuel tank leak. Concerned about the steel’s age and condition, we removed the tank and sent it to a local welding shop to have a new one fabricated exactly like it. That left my Oliver sitting in the barn with its innards spread across the floor while I relied on my backup Cab tractor, a White 2-105 Field Boss. She’s a beautiful machine, complete with an old 8-track player. Remember those? Four channels and only a handful of songs on each one. That tractor is a rolling time capsule. The problem is, she rides rough. Without dual wheels mounted, every bump in the field seemed to travel straight up my spine. By the time I finished plowing and disking, I felt like I’d been bounced apart and put back together INCORRECTLY. Still, the work had to get done. Last Saturday, one of my seven Granddaughters, Alaina (& we have five grandsons), wanted to help me tackle corn planting. For those unfamiliar with planters, they use long marker arms that leave a guide line for the next pass across the field. One marker on my John Deere 7000 worked perfectly. The other refused to cooperate. That meant I had a marker going east but not coming back west. As a result, my cornfield may look as though it was planted by someone who had one too many cups of coffee—or perhaps something a bit stronger. I like doing things well, and crooked rows bother me. But with hay already down and needing to be baled, time slipping away, I had no choice but to plant anyway. The truth is that many modern farmers simply engage the GPS, and the satellite steers the tractor with remarkable precision. Those beautiful ruler-straight rows you see from the road are often guided by technology. My rows, on the other hand, were guided by one working marker and a prayer. An old retired farmer once told me, “Don’t worry about those crooked rows, Sherry. There’s more corn in a crooked row than in a straight one.” I’ve never forgotten that, and his words never rang truer than they do this year. What matters is that the corn got planted. As soon as we finished, we unhooked the planter, hooked onto the baler, and put up three fields of hay. Then came the best surprise of all. Our only son, Thom, drove up from Indiana. After looking over the old Oliver, he scratched his head and said, “Mom, why did you have a new fuel tank built? I probably could have patched this one for you.” Within two hours, he had cut out the damaged section, welded in new steel, reinstalled the tank, and put everything back together. Just like that, my Oliver 1855 was alive again. I won’t deny it—I nearly cried. Farming isn’t always about machinery, crops, or cattle. Sometimes it’s about the people who show up when you need them. Sometimes it’s about a granddaughter helping plant corn, a wise old farmer offering perspective, or a son who can fix in two hours what you’ve been worrying and struggling with for weeks. And sometimes it’s about an old Oliver tractor returning to the field where she belongs. The rows may be crooked this year, but MY HEART IS PRETTY STRAIGHT on one thing: I am grateful, from sunrise to Suppertime…..where even crooked rows can grow good corn!
Death is a part of life; this is something we all know, yet we never fully learn how to accept it.
It comes in many forms and at times when we don’t expect it. Death plays no favorites. It takes parents, friends, relatives, neighbors, a partner, and children. Sometimes it quietly enters our home and takes a beloved pet who shared our days in a way no one else could. Sometimes, we humans have to remind ourselves to keep that line VISIBLE a human loss and the loss of a pet. The heart cannot always recognize the distinction, but we must try to remember the difference ourselves.
All that being said, on Easter Sunday, we shared a lovely dinner with our children and grandchildren, and shortly after they went home, I noticed that one of the Hereford cattle in the pen seemed to be in labor, pushing pretty hard. I checked her and decided that with a water bag hanging, I could afford to give her 60 to 90 minutes before I would need to intervene.
Almost 2 hours and nothing. So now, I grabbed a baseball bat in each hand, walked out to feed the herd, and began separating the labored-down cow from the feeder. The bats are EXTENSIONS to my arms, not for hitting. I called Granddaughter Alaina and asked if she wanted to be a part of pulling a cow, and she was game.
We got the heifer (first-time mom) rounded up in the loading chute area, and I did a quick exam. My heart dropped as my worst fear hit me instantly. The calf was not only breech, but its legs were tucked so tightly beneath it that I couldn’t feel the hocks. (the hooves).
I have pulled plenty of calves in my 34 years on this farm, and it’s no picnic no matter the issue is. For three hours, I had my right arm up to my armpit, trying to push the calf forward enough to grab at least one of the legs. To no avail. I had Alaina trying to do the same. A few times, I would have her use her arm and slide down my arm and see if the two of us could pull the hock up enough to see it, and at least get one out. Each time the cow contracts, it crushes your whole arm; your hands are constantly riding against pelvic bones, hip bones. Several times out of exhaustion, we would stop.
The grim reality has set in, and I was fairly certain the calf was gone, but still needed to be delivered. I took a break for one moment and said, “Alaina, you and I are about to pull a ‘Jim Haas’. Growing up on the homeplace, my dad was like McGyver, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix, repair, or fabricate. At least this daughter thought so.
Now we cut off a one-inch ratchet strap and back in we go, trying to at least get a strap around the left leg and try to pull it up and out while I am pushing on the calf’s whole hind end, trying to push it far enough ahead inside the mom that I can gain leverage on the leg. Still no progress.
We tried everything I could think of. After three hours, our daughter, Tonya, called Dr. Fedore, and at 8 p.m., he joined the party.
Within moments, he concurred exactly what I had told him. He worked a few minutes and was able to pull the left foot out, and said it was probably because we had been working on it so long.
He and I then worked shoulder to shoulder for almost an hour, taking turns trying to retrieve the right hoof. We were wearing out, and there was no progress. He ran to his truck, got out a calf puller, a long, threaded 8-foot rod about 1 inch in diameter, resembling a Y. He placed the Y across the hind end of the cow, hooked a chain around the calf’s foot, attached three handles to the chain, and started ratcheting. The rod broke in half. Then we went to the barn and grabbed a common farm “Come-Along”, hooked it to the chain again with three handles, and began pulling. I don’t know how the cow endures such brutal pulling and tugging, but she did.
At 9 p.m., the calf was finally delivered. It was a little girl, dark red with a white face and white socks, and gosh, it hurt this farmHER’s heart.
She was gone. That’s the part that stays with you. Perhaps it’s because I spent almost four hours running my hands up and down her hips and legs and hooves, feeling her tail trying to bring her into the world.
On a farm, there is no time to stand still in grief. We shift quickly to the next issue-the mother. We treated her. Doc gave her three different shots for pain, antibiotics, and then I said a silent prayer that she would pull through. It wasn’t her fault. The baby was turned wrong, but she feels the loss too.
Dr. said as breach births go, this kind is the worst, and that we had done everything right, but sometimes “right” isn’t enough to change the ending.
I know it’s not human life we are talking about, I know that it’s not important in the general scheme of life’s ups and downs, and it wasn’t the cost of the animal or the vet bill that bothered me. It was the beautiful, healthy, little calf, fully developed…her life gone before she could draw a single breath.
When the doc left, the calf taken care of, I went inside, tossed all my clothes in the garbage, and showered with soap and bleach. I was worn out.
Yesterday, the doctor yelled at the cow at one point and said, “Hey, don’t break my arm!” I asked, inches from his face, still shoulder to shoulder, “Can that really happen?”
His answer did NOT leave me feeling warm and fuzzy last night. This morning, my whole arm, wrist, and hand are severely swollen and barely move, – a quiet reminder of the fight to save a new life, and my human arm was being squeezed for hours yesterday between bones while the cow had contractions, and my arm was in places it wasn’t meant to be in.
Our big Hereford bull, who has been so quiet and docile for 2 years, screamed and moaned throughout the procedure. Never has he behaved that way. If I told him to quiet down, he would for a while. Bruno knew the cow was in distress, and the way he would smell the air and curl his lip, I knew from his reaction that the calf was gone. Hours after I turned the cow back into the general population, my bull still moaned and cried.
Life on the farm is not for the faint of heart. Especially on a small farm, where every animal has a name, and they matter to you. However, as I have always tried to tell our three children and now our 12 grandchildren, farm life can show joy and loss in the very same moment. IT teaches you that love isn’t just in the “saving” … sometimes it’s in the trying with all you have, and still, at the close of the day, you question if you did all you could.
The outcome broke my heart, but I still continue forward because I love this part of farm living: I love the cows, the sheep, the chickens, the smell of dirt and diesel, the sound of dry corn being cracked into feed by a grinder. It’s who I am.
On this farm…. Love isn’t just something you feel; it’s something you do.
It’s never a good sign when you show up at a friend’s house carrying your own handkerchief.
(Kleenex isn’t what it used to be, and paper towels are too rough. ) You’ve been hurting for a while now, the kind of heartache that only hurts when you breathe. Your whole-body aches. You are broken. AGAIN.
You hold on as long as you humanly can before you knock on their door. You know, that one true friend that never shuts you down, never crushes your heart. They will speak truth, that is sometimes hard to swallow, but it’s always offered in a LOVING way.
They greet you with a warm hug, a bright smile, a cup of coffee, and they DON’T invite you to sit at their table, where you normally visit. They lead you to their own private sanctuary, where they hold your hand as you crumble into pieces. Soon, your heavy backpack of pain has slid from your shoulders and now sits on the floor beside your feet, where it belongs.
You breathe easier now, and the two of you laugh over a silly joke through all the tears and nose blowing. Its a TREASURE to have a friend like that. Someone who really sees you, understands you, believes the best IN you, and wants the best FOR you.
Suddenly, you are worried about them carrying your burden throughout their own day, and you don’t want to upset their mind or their heart.
That’s what real friendship does. You care more about the other person than yourself.
We can wrestle with anxiety and worry over enormous things and the minuscule things, but a true friend will see how you hurt, or notice you aren’t yourself, and they want to hold your hand, they pray with you, and they wrap you in the warmth of their love tightly until you feel strong enough to stand on your own again.
They don’t hurl harsh words at you; they don’t stand there with that “I told you so” smirk.
They jump down into the pit you’ve fallen into ONE MORE TIME, simply because YOU are important to them.
Sometimes the weight of our burdens or anxious thoughts is all tangled up in the fear that if we don’t find a way through our “jungle of pain,” it will swallow us alive.
A true friend shows us that we don’t need to build brick walls or keep a watchful eye for the next heartache to happen.
God’s got all that taken care of already.
We only need to love others to the best of our ability, count our MANY blessings, search for the joy and the beauty in each new day… and be grateful for a friend who truly “loveth at all times”.
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.
whispersofmylife.com 