Writings from a farmHER….about family, and farm….as we harvest life's BLESSINGS together….one moment at a time

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  • LIFE, LOSS AND LETTING GO

    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.

  • A friend loveth at all times

    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”.

  • A Best Friend

    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.

  • Hide and Seek

    September 04, 2025

    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!

  • The OLIVER 66

    ANOTHER SAGA FROM THE STAFFORD-SHELBY FARM

    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.

  • It’s Not About the Breakfast

    Friday, Sept 5, 2025

     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.

  • Two Playhouses

    Written in 2014.

    THIS IS THE FIRST- cobbled-up playhouse.

    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

  • Brutus

    BRUTUS

    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.

  • I Wrote a Book… Then a Sequel…Then Another Sequel

    November 2003

    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.

  • Our Girls Are Home…

    November 2017

    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.