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Santa Hand Working Man Hands

August 25, 2025

December 2023

As Christmas draws near, my mind travels back more often than usual to when I was a child and all our Aunts and Uncles were still here. They were the family icons, the main stain, and life seemed simpler.

We lived in a family neighborhood. Literally. My Dad has six siblings, and all but 2 lived in the same country block. Every Christmas Eve, my parents, my three brothers, and I, my dad’s brothers, sisters, their spouses, and their children would gather at Aunt Mary Helens & Uncle Dales. Everyone would bring their favorite dish to pass, and there were so many different cakes, candies, pies, cookies, and a wide variety of fudge. Talk about “Visions of sugarplums”.

The men would gather around the kitchen table, and play cards while the women visited with one another, set out all the food, and tended to the children.

A real Christmas stood in the bay window of their living room glistening with tinsel and brightly colored ornaments and shimmering lights of various colors adorned the balsam branches. Real candy canes hung on the tree on that night and were handed out to all the children before the night was over.

My Dad and Uncle Merle would bring their guitars and amps and set up a small stage in the farmhouse dining room between the large table and a buffet. They invited a couple of their nephews to grab their guitars and play along as they were just beginning to learn how to play also, and they were excited to be included.

Familiar Christmas carols would fill the air, and everyone would sing along, and holler out their requests for the next tune. This would last for a couple of hours, and soon Grandma would ask Dad to play a couple old classics like “Silver Haired Daddy of Mine” or “There’s an old Spinning Wheel in the parlor,” and Dad would happily sing them for her

All us children would grab a cookie from the table, line up on the stairway that overlooked the dining room, and wait for the “old people” to get back to singing real Christmas songs. Near midnight, an adult would point to a tiny red flashing light far off in the eastern sky and announce to the children that it was Rudolph, and time for everyone to get home and tucked in their beds so Santa could make his stop. These Holiday Gatherings still live on in our hearts and minds. That kind of magic never melts away.

Christmas at our house wasn’t about the gifts that we received or the earthly possessions that we had. Dad often reminded us, it was more important how we treated people every day, that we were all together and healthy, and how that was far more valuable than anything we would find beneath the tree on Christmas morning.

As a young girl, I used to watch my dad intently. Every move he made; the words he spoke seemed so worldly-wise. I would record a lot of them in my journals at night. Even back then, many decades ago. He was the kind of person that all four of us kids wanted to be just like when we grew up.

Dad worked during the days at a factory, worked the farm from early evening till midnight, and would repeat this practice season after season, year after year. Back then, all farmers did. We kids would lay in our beds in the evening, and listen to the sound of that popping Johnny crawling up and down the hills of our farm. There is nothing like the sound of a 2-cylinder engine in an old John Deere B. When the popping sound grew louder, we kids would sneak out of our beds in the dark, sit below my north bedroom window, and watch Dad drive in the farmyard, park the tractor, shut off the barn lights, and walk to the house. All seemed right with the world now; we would all go back to bed and sleep soundly.

I loved my dad’s hands. I still do. I still snap photos of them with my cell phone across his kitchen table while he sits drinking coffee, completely unaware of my strange fetish.

Those hard-working hands gave us a good swat now and then when we needed it and deserved it. They pulled out our splinters and tended to our colds and earaches in the middle of the night. I recall one evening, he was standing over me at the kitchen table. I was in the 6th grade, and he was trying to help explain some new math to me. I realize today he probably thought I was a bit dense. I wasn’t, but I was lost in the essence of him. Mesmerized by the large veins that protruded out of the top of his hands, and he smelled of coffee mixed with dirt and diesel. I loved it that smell. I still do.

Those working hands wrestled angry sows a hundred times, delivered newborn calves, soothed a spooked horse, sewed up a couple of pigs on the kitchen floor with needle and thread, and still took time to pet the family dog while doing evening chores.

Those working hands could drive a tenpenny nail all the way in with just three whacks and then waited patiently while we children tried to do the same thing. Unsuccessfully, of course, but he waited.

Those working hands farmed and played a Gretsch guitar in a band every weekend since he was sixteen. That duo jet Gretsch sat in the corner of our living room all the years we grew up. We kids would pick it up as teens and try to play it, strum on it, and try to be like him. He never scolded us for touching it, never told us not to touch his stuff, but whenever he needed to practice or play it, he would patiently put it back in tune.

He encouraged us to play. He said when the world gets crazy and things start to pile up on a person, your guitar will always be there, waiting like a long-lost friend for you to pick it up. It will soothe away most of life’s problems. He was right about that. Then again, what hasn’t he been right about?

As Christmas draws near, I still BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS, and I believe in the spirit of warmth, love, and kindness toward one another.

Our Santa had hard-working hands. He has never been arrogant or rude to others and treated anyone like a second-class citizen. Because He so unselfishly gave of himself to us and others, and LED BY EXAMPLE,

THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS LIVED IN OUR HEARTS ALL YEAR LONG. SHS 12/2022
A Double Tricycle

August 25, 2025

THE SUMMER OF 1965

Stan, is the oldest of us four kids. I came along just fifteen short months later, and though I was second in the birthing order. I was the CEO of my three brothers. {we laugh about it now days, but they used to salute me and say, “yes Sir, Sargent General Sir”. } We had to keep the house and rooms as clean as possible to avoid upsetting our mom, and since they were boys, and tended to play and not worry about things like that. I acted like I was the resident police office. Always giving orders and telling them what we needed to get done before mom got home.

When Stan and I were 5 and 6, we were playing in the back of dad’s old garage where things had accumulated since he was in high school. There were old swing sets, old planters and plow parts. On this particular excursion around the garage, we stumbled onto a couple of “MORE RUSTY THAN RED tricycles.

One of them was in decent shape, with one back tire bend and unable to roll. The other tricycle had a crooked handlebar, and front tire was folded in half. There is not telling the story behind these two trikes but when we mentioned them to Dad and ask him if he could fix them, he had that pensive look. You know the look, the one says he’s doubting what you are wanting but he about to agree to check it out and see what he can do about it. We didn’t have any bikes at all, so the prospect looked for us.

Dad was born right on the tail end of the Great Depression; he never threw anything away. His theory was we might need it someday. He was usually right more often than not, and he was repurposing all sorts of things before Pinterest…. and before it was cool.

We ask Dad if there was a way he could take the two bikes and at least make one that worked, and Stan and I would take turns riding it. Big brother was in total agreement with this idea at the time.

Dad told us he would go look at them when he got a few minutes and for us to run along and play. Later that afternoon, just before suppertime Dad hollered at both of us to come up to the house. We went running up the hill from the creek where were always digging in the water for old treasures or trying to catch big fat green bull frogs. They were awesome to look at and so much fun to catch.

As we ran around the corner of the large two-story white farmhouse towards the old garage, we saw Dad standing in front of his creation.
The minute I saw , I knew our Dad was a genius.! He had cut the front tire off the mangled tricycle, pressed the frame together in front of the seat of the second tricycle, drilled a hole in the it, and then connected the front half of that tricycle to the back half of the good tricycle.

We were so excited………well…. I should say I was excited. Because the look on Stan’s face was anything but happy. He looked up at our Dad with a scowl of disbelief, and then he turned sideways and cut his eyes in my direction. WOW, I can still see that glare in my memory. Lol

While Stan was generally in a pretty complacent mood. We built tree forts together, played hide and seek all over the farm, once we even pull a Campbell soup can lid from the burned-up garbage and cut our thumbs to be blood bothers. IT was something he saw watching Leave it to Beaver or something. (Looking back that wasn’t one of his brighter ideas.)
Dad was proud of his invention, and holding onto the handlebars he said

“Stan, you hop on the front seat, and Sherry will have to ride in the back.” Stan didn’t move. I of course jumped right on the back half of this new tricycle. I couldn’t wait to ride together all around the farm.

Stan didn’t attempt to move. He looked up at Dad and said, “Why do I have to be up front peddling?”.

“Because you’re older, and bigger than she is, now get on. ” Dad tried coaxing my brother again. “

” Sherry is going to hold on to your shoulders because she doesn’t have any handlebars, come on, get on and try it.” Dad finished encouragingly. Come on, get on.” He finished still with an encouraging tone. Dad was suggesting that Stan get on the front, he was telling him politely. I felt like this was going to be the greatest invention of our young years.
That look on my brother’s face was still there. That’s when I stopped smiling. I realized, Stan was not on board with this idea. He was not a fan of this new two-seated tricycle contraption that our Dad created but he also knew he really had no choice at this point except to climb on the front and start peddling. Dad watched us for a few minutes then he went on to his next chore.

Now this was the life. I loved it this trike redo. I was enjoying a free ride pulling on stans shirt trying to stay on the little seat behind him. I am sure he was enjoying that about as much as our new contraption because much to my own surprise Stan began peddling faster and harder. I was too busy trying to hold on and keep my feet hooked on the back of my part of the trike and I was clueless as to what was fueling him on.

A few more rounds around the driveway in the thick sand and dirt and grass. He was going a bit fast but it was great fun. When he was sure that we were out of Dads my older, bigger brother ceremoniously jump off the front of that tricycle built for two and when he bailed the front end came up off the ground and landed me flat on my backside.

(Stan in brown, myself in Red) Christmas 1968)

Our family has laughed many times about this memory over the years and about our Dad’s Rural ingenuity.

Recently, it hit me. All of our 12 beautiful grandchildren have outgrown tricycles. There must be 12 or 15 2-wheel bikes reused, regifted, in the shed and on any given weekend when they’re all here for a visit, this circular farm drive looks like a NASCAR race for bikes. The teens ride fast and stop quickly showing the younger ones how to ” break and slide or pop some wheelies”. You know, the safe stuff. Not only do they take blocks and boards and make ramps so they can get up speed and make a cool jump or two. This Omie, (German for Grandma) has helped them all on more than one occasion to build said ramps. LOL

Yesterday. I had an idea. My Dads must be rubbing off on me.
I decided to try my hand at welding. I took an old vintage tricycle that I once bought just because it was old and was using in the front yard as a decoration. I cut the front of another tricycle that wasn’t vintage, that was just worn out and I hooked the two tricycles together.
I RE-CREATED THE tricycle built for two that Dad made for Stan and me. My intention is just to have it to look at or perhaps sit it around my garden shed as a decoration.

The memory of our shared bike is precious to me. I wanted to recreate the contraption to show our Dad and send a picture of it to Stan. I thought he would get a real kick out of it.

I can ALMOST see his eyes GLARING at me now, clear from Kentucky.
Toy Story and Woody

August 25, 2025

GRANDPARENTS WILL GET THIS.

Circa 2007,
We were down in Syracuse Indiana visiting with our son Thomas Shelby and his young family. We all zipped through the local k-mart grabbing a few groceries.
Our FIRST Grandchild Benjamin Shelby was not yet 2. He saw this big display of Woody Dolls from the movie Toy Story. He picked up one of the boxes and stared at Woody behind the plastic window for several minutes before putting it back. He NEVER ask for it. About that time his Daddy walked up, reached down to take hold of Benjamins hand and began to walk out of the store. Our whole family was going to grab a burger and then head back to their house to visit a little while longer. Ben turned his head sideways as far as he could and began waving. He wasn’t waving at his Omie and Papa, or his Aunt Tonya or Aunt Cate. I can STILL hear his little voice saying “Bye bye Woody “.

Twenty minutes later, we were all sitting together sharing a lunch at McDonalds. I had already made up my mind. I was going back for Woody!

Twenty-some-odd years ago, 25.00 was more like 40.00 today, and though I knew we didn’t have the extra money in the bank. (Yes… We lived that tight, and yes, I knew there was a chance the check might bounce) but I went back to Walmart, and tried my hand at that “beat the check to the bank” game. When everyone left McDonalds and headed to Thoms house, I motioned that we would be right there. Back to Walmart I raced.

The look and squeal from our little Benjamin when I walked into his house and handed Woody to him made it all worthwhile. He was beyond elated, and so were we just seeing the happiness on his little round face. Ben has always been a tender heart, and an appreciate little boy. He hugged my legs so tight that day. Several times.

It was the sweetest thing to watch Ben carry Woody everywhere for months. As grew older, Ben lost interest in Woody and moved on to the movie Cars. A year or so later, I was cleaning the second story playhouse we built here on the farm for all our grandchildren. And there was Woody. He was nestled among many other dolls and toy trucks and cars. That was when I wrote Ben’s name on the bottom of Woody’s other boot and brought him inside for safe keeping. The other grandchildren were able to play with him, but for the last several years, Woody is a decoration around the family Christmas tree. That tree is full of family memorabilia. Baby hats, first black church shoes, sippy cup lids, bracelets and necklaces made by our grand girls for me. I am constantly trying to save or preserve all the beautiful memories from these moments in my life. I have always been a keeper of precious, silly things that touch my heart. Our three children, their wonderful spouses, and our beautiful 12 grandchildren have always made my heart blossom.

Now for the rest of the story.

Did the check bounce? Yep, and I kept it for posterity in my journal. Would I do it again? Yep, in a New York minute.

We all love our children and struggled to raise them and provide all the basics…. by the time our grand babies descend upon our hearts, it is an incredible precious time. It’s a second chance… to love our children again, to see the world through the eyes of babies one more time. OH THE MAGIC IN THE ORDINARY DAYS…….when we stop running around, going constantly, and buying everything that doesn’t make us happy. Look at all you have to be thankful for within your own backyard……within a hugs reach.

Our Ben is a grown married man now, with a beautiful wife……and time continues to speed by like a phantom Jet.

shs/Dec 2024
My Dad’s Hands

August 25, 2025

July 2024

I have always been intrigued by my dad’s hands, and the beauty of them as they worked and toiled through the years.
Those hands have played a guitar since he was 16,( nonstop) planted crops, processed pigs, deer, cattle, and even ran a trap line along the creek to keep his family fed through some lean years.
Those hands have baled hay, built barns, built a home, changed motors, and transmissions in his vehicles, replaced hydraulic lines, hydraulic pumps, gears, pulleys, and built miles of fence in his lifetime.
Those hands have taken many state and national ribbons for his artistic talents in Taxidermy which made him a bit famous around these parts, and he still remembered to pet the family dogs.

He took the time to help us kids with our homework, late at night at the kitchen table, after his factory job during the day, and after he came in from working the fields till dark-thirty. He would eat his supper and help us between bites of food and drinks of strong coffee.

I can still see him leaning over my shoulder at the kitchen table explaining the beginnings of algebra to me. It was such a foreign concept in my mind to “marry” letters and numbers together….but as he stood over me, I could smell the strong black coffee on him, I could see the grease impregnated into his skin and beneath his nails, i would follow all the large veins that looked like a roadmap a crossed the tops of his hands, with my eyes and I was more in awe of THOSE HANDS, and THE MAN, than any school lesson he was trying to help me with.

I have always said that I was born a hundred years too late. The way my mind and heart work, I would go back to 1862 in a minute. I am antiquated in my ways, and quite possibly an incurable romantic. In kindergarten, I married off all my crayons. A small yellow box, Crayola 8, and they had to have someone too. Orange married red, Green was married to yellow, Blue was married to purple, and black was married to brown.

Today, at a funeral, I had a hard time keeping myself together, the world is down another GOOD MAN. My cousin David Bainbridge was taken from us. I will miss all our conversations about history. It’s hard to find people that like to talk about that stuff with such vigor and enthusiasm and knowledge as Cousin Dave had.

During the service, I would glance over at my dad, and my heart would overflow with how grateful I feel to see him sitting there. Still here, still healthy, still so wise, still treating all people with common decency, STILL SO HUMBLE………. and STILL……….I am mesmerized by HIS HANDS, and the stories they hold.
I have his hands, the same shape, and length, arthritis in the same places, enlarged thumb joints, knuckles larger than my fingers. I couldn’t cup my hands together and carry any water to anything. The joints won’t allow them to squeeze in for a temporary bowl or cup. I confess, it feels like a rite of passage. After the funeral we sat together during the luncheon, and I ask my aunt to snap a photo of us. It wasn’t a good picture of me, but ……IT WAS A GREAT SHOT OF NOT JUST HIS HAND, but our hands together. Solid Gold in my heart and memories.

I am proud that God chose him to our Dad, proud of any trait I may have inherited from him. He is a good, kind man, who taught us right from wrong, taught us how to work hard, always do our best, and to take PRIDE in anything we laid a hand upon. Be it a task, a job, ourselves, and our country. He was adamant, that we honor those who have fought and died for our right to still be here living in this great country of ours. He still believes that if each one of us in America would get up every morning and try and do one thing to make the world a better place, do what thing that makes this world richer than we found it, he believed we would be able to keep our country great.

LORETTA LYNN sang it best:
They don’t make em like my Daddy anymore; they’ve thrown away the pattern through the years.
In this great big land of freedom.
At a time, we really need em…. they don’t make em like my Daddy ANYMORE.

And they don’t make hands like his anymore either. You would walk a long hard mile to find hands that are calloused from working hard, picking a guitar, and wrenching on machines.
FOLLOW ME

August 25, 2025

July 2023

Yesterday, I ran across the field to spend time with my youngest daughter’s four children while she and her hubby ran to extract her wisdom teeth. Young Jake and I were riding bikes, up and down their driveway, giving pause now and again to visit the chickens, ducks, and horses. Truth is, I was taking advantage of the ” pausing” since I haven’t ridden a bike in too many years to count. lol.

After we parked the bikes inside the garage, Young Jake said, “Omie, come here. I want to show you something. (Omie is German for grandma). I hesitated for a moment and explained that we should get a drink of water first. He was walking towards their woods and still urged me to follow.

“Jake, honey, I don’t want to walk through the woods now; maybe later. I can see the path you have made from here. It’s neat.” I replied.

“No, Omie, it’s not that; Just follow me, I want to show you something. Jake kept his demeanor perfectly casual, with no change in his voice that would try and entice me to keep moving in his direction. He didn’t try to convince me or entice me. He walked a few steps and stood there to see if I was following him. Finally, I decided to follow the boy and see what he had to show me, as he seemed pretty intent on the matter.

WHAT A SHOCK AND A TOTAL BLESSING for me, as I rounded the corner to see this. His little primitive hut blew me away. I almost screamed with excitement.

“My Goodness, Jake, this is so awesome. I love it. Did Daddy help you make it? He told me no, that he and his older brother Logan, who is 11, made it. There are no nails, or screws in this structure, no string to hold it all together. I couldn’t believe the imagination, determination, and creativity it took for two small boys to make their fort from what they found lying on the ground.

For many years, these boys have spent time here at our farm, and I subscribed to an app on the tv called Adventure Agents. All the grandchildren enjoyed the shows, where a Dad and his children are always out in the woods discovering and building without causing harm to the environment. And I have bought several Wilderness Books for them; apparently, they have flipped through the pages and put all that knowledge to work.

What a gift to me. I am so thankful I continued following him. I would have missed something this special, rare, and unique. I share it on my blog site today, in the hopes that one day, the little hut has fallen apart and lays again on the woodland floor, they will see this post and “REMEMBER WHEN” they built such a cool fort and the day the Jake shared it with me. I am still in awe of the precious little building and feel deeply touched that Jake wanted to share it with me.

July 2023
A SHIRT COLLECTION

August 25, 2025

August 2020

I am not sure when this urgency was born into my soul. Perhaps, When I was about 15, I borrowed this one black western shirt with fringe hanging off the shoulders and arms for a school “cowboy day”. It belonged to my Dad, and one afternoon I finally got up enough nerve and ask if I could wear it the next day. We didn’t borrow clothing from my Dad, in fact by the time my older brother was 15, his clothes were being handed down to Dad instead of the other way around. Stan was built like Dad, with the exception that Dad is what I would term normally built from the waist up, and Stan was built like our Dad’s Dad, and HIS namesake. Grandpa Stan had a barrel chest and broad shoulders. Thus, Stan handed the clothes down to Dad. Two of my other brothers and built exactly like Our Dad, just nice and lean.

Dad wore this shirt off and on as he played in a country-western band most every Friday and Saturday night since he was 16 years old. I remember wearing his shirt all day, and it smelled like him. A bit of cologne with a touch of his own natural scent and a hint of coffee. It felt like he was hugging me all day. My Dad is a GREAT man but never hugged us as kids. He wasn’t raised in a demonstrative home, he was raised with a lot of love and encouragement and beautiful words from his mom….they just didn’t demonstrate all they felt. Today, I will hug my Dad when I leave, and though sometimes he tenses up, I do it anyway. When I leave him, or talk to him on the phone I tell him I love him, i think sometimes it makes him a tad uncomfortable, but I do it anyway. He is 83 years young and I am so INCREDIBLY GRATEFUL that he is still here, and I dread the day he wont be. Since i was 12, i would imagine losing him and i would cry…..nothing has changed this many years later.

Dad playing my OVATION guitar

I should mention here…….that I was in the 1st, grade, standing behind the school building with some girl friends when one of them burst my heart and shocked me into reality. We were doing hopscotch and saying this silly rhythm about who we would marry, I of course said I was going to marry my Dad when I grow up. SHE told me I was stupid, and that I couldn’t marry him, because he was already married to my mom. Grant it, I should have known that, but we did live a rather sheltered country life…… (Photo below, my wedding day dancing with my Dad 1981)

Fast forward, to June 2001 . My Son and I went to Nevada and spent some time high up on a mountain that belonged to my Older cousin Larry. He, like his father, and my father was built long and lean. While we were out there visiting Larry had a bag of work shirts and t-shirts he couldn’t wear anymore and gave them to my son. It was kind of Larry to give them to us, and I packed them into my suitcase and brought them home, but My son and I both knew these shirts would never fit him. He is built just like my older brother. Large barrel chest and square shoulders. Once we arrived home, I packed them away in a tote, just because they were Larry’s. Some are uniform shirts with his name and company logo on them , there was few t-shirts, and hats…etc. Within 15 months Larry was killed in a head on collision by a young man doing 90mph in a jag. I was so sad. I pulled one of his t-shirts from the tote, and wore it, just to feel close to him . Maybe to help ease the pain my heart felt so heavily.

In 2007, I drove to my Uncle Freds house. (My Dads little brother) to give his wife some relief and help take care of him, as he lay in a bedroom dying from cancer. Before the end of the day, he begged me to stay and take care of him. I had never done anything like it before. I never went home. I had clothes brought to me, and I stayed till the end. We had alot of beautiful conversation in that dark back room, and my heart ached for the man who said he wasn’t leaving much good behind. I lost weight during those 3 weeks, it was a lot on my mind to do all I did for him. I was with him when he passed at 2 a.m. I then called his wife downstairs to tell her. I called the coroner, and when they arrived they said “they would not accept him as he was”. His body so rapid with fever and bacteria, that he only wore a diaper, because he was so hot. I had to dress my deceased Uncle’s body by myself that morning. I have never gotten over that feeling. I stayed through the final process of it all. My Aunt clung to me like a lifeline. Insisting I sat beside her during the funeral and to the cemetery. At his funeral, the preacher stopped at the end and said so perfectly….”I won’t mention the name, as this person is incredibly giving and doesn’t seek the notoriety for it, but we know and GOD knows that Barb and Fred had an angel in their midst these last 3 weeks and we know who that angel was.” That meant a lot to me. And to add a bit more “frosting” afterward my Dad walked up to me and said “I think the angel the preacher was talking about was you” wasn’t it. I just smiled. Again, before I left the house, to come back to life, I ask my Aunt for one of his old flannels and she told me to take all his civil are t-shirts as we both were history buffs.

In hindsight, I am most grateful that I took care of my uncle, for otherwise I wouldn’t have known or had the experience that I would NEED just two years later, to take care of Burt.

My Uncle Fred My Dad

In 2009, My very Best Friend and Confidant. We had the BEST of friends for 26 years. I knew him my entire life, but shortly after the birth of my first child in 1983, he began stopping by my old single-wide mobile home and having coffee with me. My home was clean, but the trailer was about wore out when we bought it for $500.00 and put it up on a piece of property that belonged to my Dad. We made payments on the septic system for 6 years. We were so poor, but that was such a RICH time in my life.

Burt was 36 years OLDER than me, and he loved to stop by my humble little place and visit. He never having children of his own, grew attached to mine, and we spent many days walking the woods together, sharing conversations about life, and love, and happiness and the pursuit of it all. What is real, and isn’t. What matters and what doesn’t. I learned so many things from him.

In 2009, Burt was dyeing in a nursing home. I begged his wife to let me bring him home to die, as each day he ate 9 spoonful’s of food, then seven, then 5… He begged to me every day to bring him home. When I agreed to move in and stay until it was all over, and promised his wife that she would not have to take care of him in any way, she finally agreed. I was his entire hospice team for 2 weeks while he lost his battle to several health issues. Those were hard days, sad days, and days still filled with so much love. I held on to him until the end, I recorded his time of death, and I prepared his body, before I called the coroner. As the van pulled out of the driveway with my dearest friend laying in the back covered with a white sheet, there was a woman standing behind the house in downtown south bend, crying and sobbing so hard, I almost didn’t recognize her. It was me. Later that day, I went into his closet and pulled his favorite tie, his “Mr. Rogers church sweater” I always teased him about, and both of his OLIVER TRACTOR t-shirts. (I was a fan, because of him ) Today, I still wear his sweater on a cold winter day, and his t-shirt is about worn thin.

When I wear them, I feel close to Burt. It makes my heart feel lighter, healed, maybe not so broken, and it help ease the pain that I still try to push clean down to the bottom of my farm boots, but it stills rises when i least expect it to. That MISSING YOU feeling never goes way. We deal with it, file it away…but its still there.

2018 I had met a woman of remarkable value. She was born as Edna, but her name never stuck. Clear up until the day she passed, close friends and family called her Babe. She was a tall, stout woman with such a loving demeanor and such a hard working woman. I loved to sit at her table and hear the stories of her life. During the wars 1941- her and her husband raised chickens in a large silver military Quonset and collected and washed 1500 eggs a day. Folks would come to their home with food bonds, and were allowed only 1 dozen eggs per family. Babe would tell her husband to redirect their attention and she would sneak 4 or 5 dozen into the vehicles of people who had a large brood of children and needed more than what the govt said they were allowed to have. She was beautifully kind, and smart, and the more time i spent with her, the more i idolized her. Did I mention she was 88 when i met her, and 94 when she passed. At her funeral, I about had to gag my own mouth. a few family members stood up and talked about her but no one spoke of her accomplishments as a woman, about her name and how it came to be, about how she took care of dozens of others, how she took in borders later in life, more to help them that herself. Every single time she saw me, she kissed me right on the lips, and as strange as it sounds, I adored it, and her. When she passed, because we had talked about my silly fettish, her daughter Jo who is 78 showed up at my house one afternoon and said “Mom wanted you to have her garden shirt and this old family bible”. I was so touched and boy did I cried. Even on her deathbed, Babe thought of me.

Myself, JoAnne, and Babe

*******************************************************

I have shirts and a bathrobe that are my dad’s. When his wife cleans the closets and asks me to pass them onto my son-in-love that is the size of my dad, I tell her I will, but I always steal the most well-worn shirts for myself.

My older brother, and dear friend…lives 6 hours away, when he went through a divorce, and lived here with me, and his “ex” so generously threw all his clothes in black garbage bags, with most of his other possessions. It all stored in my garage and then one morning he and I repacked everything so he could move south. All that was left on the garage floor he told me to just toss for him. I did not. I kept his well-worn Carhartt bibs, a couple of pair of his Carhartt carpenter pants, a few of his t-shirts, and flannels. Why? Because they were his. Obviously, I can never wear his bibs or jeans. And I bought a 1986 Orange Ford F 150, and a 1960 Farmall 504 from him ….just because they were his first.

My Brother Stan,

The reason for this lengthy posting is this……

IF I ASK YOU FOR ONE OF YOUR SHIRTS, you can rest assured that I adore you, that I love you, and respect you. I want to carry a part of you with me. If it’s a day that you are gone from this world, or just a day when you are farther away from me than my heart can stand, I want to wear your shirt. I want to smell your scent, and allow it to transport me to a moment in time that is locked up tight in my mind.

You matter that much to someone. You are that important to someone, You made that much of a difference in someone’s life, and you are that hard to just let go of. I am that SOMEONE that will never let you go, never forget you, never stop loving you, and will always want to carry a tangible piece of you with me, always.

When it comes time for me to walk away from this side of the world, I’d like to think that someone will want a part of me to hold on.
ONLY TWO OWNERS SINCE 1936

August 25, 2025

His name was Burton Chester. Born July 9, 1926

He was 37 years older than me. He was living in our farming community the day that I was brought home from the hospital. We four kids grew up knowing Burt as the friendly kind neighbor who stopped by the farm and sold seed corn to my Dad (Amcorn) and drank a lot of coffee. I grew to know him as the old white-haired guy.

Alas, as is the story, time changes EVERYTHING.
When I was 18, Burt was 55 at this time. He stopped by our family farmhouse one weekday and ask if my Dad was home. When I told him he would be soon he ran to town. Burt seemed pretty disappointed. “Well.”…I remember him saying as he rubbed his chin back and forth with his large hand..” Your dad told me I could stop by and use his welder one day this week. I need to get this part welded and back on the corn picker.” I smile and said, “I can hook you the welder for you. “

This act in itself was hilarious. My folks were in the middle of remodeling the kitchen and while they waited for Mom’s double wall ovens to come in Dad had hooked up the old stove in the basement so we still had an oven. Mind you we had to go from the kitchen, through the dining room, through the new living room, and down the stairs to the basement to use it. Allow me to just add here that baking cookies were an Olympic workout. I unhooked the stove and pushed the wire up through the basement window to Burt who was standing outside in the driveway to retrieve it. That is all there was to that story. Burt always told me it was then that he saw me as a grown person and not the daughter of that farm couple down the road.

Jump to 1983. My husband and I had just had our first baby. A sweet little girl born on Easter Sunday. What a Blessing. I took that as a special gift from God, not just our baby girl, but that she was born early Easter morn. That next week…on the way home from visiting my parents I was driving past Burt’s farm and he was walking on the road. I pulled the old diesel truck over and he opened the door, and I said “Hey Burt, look what the Easter Bunny brought us”. Of course, he made over our little bundle as do most polite people, but there was a spark in His eyes as he looked her over. Again, here come that large hand with long overstuffed looking fingers and he so gently reached up to touch her hand and she grabbed ahold of his finger…and he beamed.
I told him he needed to come by my house sometime for coffee whenever he was in my neck of the woods. (Which was just the next town over 8 miles). And visit he did. Burt came to my house at least twice a week for coffee for over twenty-six years! We were like soul mates. Best Friends. We enjoyed so many of the same things, and we could talk for hours and never run out of things to say. And oh what a celebration on a rainy day because that meant two pots of coffee or more. He introduced me to photography and the world always seemed brighter when looking through his lens.

Two more babies were born, and still, Burt was around. He seemed to enjoy our children. There was a time when my Dad had a slipped disc in his back and in the early mornings Burt would come to my old trailer and watch my three babies so I could run down to my dad’s and do his morning chores for him. For a man that had never had babies of his own…this was a wild adventure. We laughed about some of those moments over and over again.
In l990 Burt’s wife of 44 years passed. She was never happy on the farm, never happy in her marriage and it was no secret that she used alcohol to console her disappointment. There were no children from their marriage. Shortly after her death, Burt asked me if I could help him try to clean up his house a little bit. It had been 44 years of accumulated debris and over 70 cats were living in the house with no litter boxes.

NOTHING had ever been swept or thrown away. It was a two-year process to find the home he once knew. I enjoyed sitting in Burt’s home drinking coffee with him and listening to his stories of growing up on that farm. His parents owned it before he did. They bought it in 1936. Burt took over after his father died suddenly in 1944. He was in boot camp at the time and was returned home by the military.

In the Spring of 1994 Burt came to me and said he wanted to sell his 200-acre farm and he did not want any of the bigger farmers to have it. He was from the old school and he loved the older way of doing things. He knew I had no money. We truly were as poor as any church mice you could have ever come across and only GOD KNOWS how we survived. So he told me what he wanted for the place, and offered me a land contract with a dollar down. (Not only is that unheard of…..but it has been and will always be the best gift in my life second only to our babies). Burt was to marry his high school sweetheart and he was moving to Indiana. He was 68 years old. Below: Burt and I in 2004

Twenty years have come and gone since then. We took this old ram shackled house and turned it into a happy little farmhouse. It’s clean, comfortable and country. When we bought the land and later had it all assessed so we could purchase some equipment they would not even put a value on the house,. It had been neglected for 44 years and over 70 cats were living in this house at one time. When we moved into the house and started to clean the upstairs to live in it, I carried many 5 gal buckets of dried cat manure out of the master bedroom alone. People have NO IDEA how much physical work has gone into this house. We hired nothing done as it was too costly. So I learned to plaster, plumb, remove, repair, replace windows, subfloors, build decks. I put the crops in during the spring and I harvested them in the fall. My husband worked off our farm for a larger farmer. So while his time here was always limited….it was because of him that we were able to keep ours going.

The farm in 1940 (top left) then 1990 (Top Right) . Bottom …the Farm as she stands today!
Then Burt was drinking coffee in my house again, but it used to be his house. He loved it. And he would tell me over and over again that some of the changes took his breath away cause that’s how his parents used to do this or that. He kept saying ” My parents are so proud of how you have brought life back to this old place…and I bet they shook probably shook their heads in dismay at me”…..
Burt ALWAYS believed in preserving the land and while the house he allowed his wife to control, the land he kept on top of. Nutrients and such.

In 2009, Burt was sick, and after a bit of a gallant fight, and spending time in a nursing home for rehab, he wanted to come home to die. His second wife said she could not do it by herself and did not want to go through all that again as she had with her first husband.
I promised if we could bring him home to pass that I would stay until it was over, and she would never have to administer anything and I would not leave till it was all over. I never left, not even to run to the store. I stayed beside Burt for over two weeks and I was his whole HOSPICE team.

I never dreamed in all the years that we had coffee, the bonding that brought us so close together that I would be the one changing his cath bag, rubbing his tired nothing, boney body with lotion while he cried over and over from the pain. Never had I thought that I would be the one administering his morphine every couple of hours.
The pain of death is an awful one, and the suffering makes no sense to me. I remained always on one side of him and his wife was on the other. He kept calling us his Angels and he would hold both of our hands and hug us both at the same time and kept thanking us both for working together and loving him as we did. His wife was wonderfully precious and I will be forever grateful that she allowed me to be there.
One day, he kept crying and asking us “why won’t the Lord just take me, I’m ready to go, I want out of this pain and suffering”. Our hearts were so heavy on days like that, and there were a number of them. We tried to explain the Lord was just preparing a place for him at HIS table, on His timetable, not ours. It wasn’t much comfort.
I was sitting at the end of his bed, my hand rubbing along his shin and listening to some other men talking that were there to see Burt when I felt the life slipping from his body.

Finally. No more suffering for him. I prepared his body for the Coroner, I put on his clean pajamas, and held his eyes closed till they stayed on their own. I realize that some who read this will not understand that those are the things you have to do when it’s finally over A part of my heart died that day. Burt had become my mother, my sister, my brother, my father, my best friend…..I knew that I would be the same after he was gone. There is a part of me that won’t ever regrow. I won’t be able to regift that part of me to anyone else ever again because I buried it with Burt.
Holding a hand as a loved one slips from this world, is an entire post all on its own. I wouldn’t have missed being there with Burt for the world. I wouldn’t have missed loving him and sharing his life and when you love and share completely….then you realize that it doesn’t just mean when there is an occasional rainstorm…it means even IN DEATH.

This photo is not pretty of my beloved Burt or me. These were some pretty dark days, a lot of nights full of pain and broken hearts, a lot of tears and hugs, little to no sleep, some nights laughter filled the room till the early morning light, and other times the silence was deafening. The waiting was excruciating. For him and us, and given the choice………. I would do it all over again. For Him.

I am a better woman today because He first loved me. He saw something in me and through him, I saw something in myself too, for the first time. I felt worth, I felt like I was ENOUGH, exactly as I was. There were no hoops to just through, no conditions to earn his love.
What a gift he left me with. What a gift this farm has been for me. I will be PAYING on it until I die no doubt, but a gift just the same for us, for our three babies all grown up, and now for our twelve grandbabies. They all gather here, play here, work here and walk around this farm that is still plowed the old-fashioned way. We grow corn without all the sprays and pesticides that bigger farmers use. We and pick ear corn and offload it into corn cribs instead of taking it to a local mill, and it is a huge family weekend when beginning harvest. Everyone is here, eager to help, eager to ride in the gravity wagons or try their hand at driving a vintage combine.
For the last couple of days, I have been out in the fields plowing with my OLIVER (not john deere) tractor and it takes me an entire day to get across a 20-acre field that the BIG BOYS cut through in 30 minutes. I am in an open station when most are all in soundproof cabs. It’s the way I like it to be, I can hear things better, I can feel the sun and wind on my face, and get to take in that wonderful combination smell of dirt and diesel which I love, and breath in the fragrant Spring as it comes to life.

TODAY……I WEAR HIS COAT

Burt’s old chore coat from 1960. It’s way too big on me, and I have to wear a sweatshirt underneath it. It’s as antiquated as my tractor, but I treasure it. I wear it because this was his parent’s dream, then it was his dream, and it’s been my dream for the last 34 years.

And:
I WEAR HIS COAT to feel closer to him somedays, hoping that he can see me in it, and know how much I MISS HIM STILL. How GRATEFUL I am for the chance to live on this land , to work it and follow in his footprints . It’s an honor & and privilege to continue his parents dream that began in 1936, A dream passed to him in 1944, and passed on to us in 1994.
I WEAR HIS COAT

August 25, 2025

September 2021

Burt and I at His wedding in 1994

His name was Burton . He was 37 years older than I.   He was living in our farming community the day that I was brought home from the hospital. We four kids grew up knowing Burt as the friendly kind neighbor who stopped by the farm and sold seed corn to my Dad (Amcorn) and drank a lot of coffee. I grew knowing him as the old white haired guy.

Alas, as is the story, time changes EVERYTHING. When I was 18,Burt was 55 at this time.  He stopped by our family farmhouse one week day and ask if my Dad was home. When I told him he would be soon he ran to town. Burt seemed pretty disappointed. “Well.”….I remember him saying as he rubber his chin back and forth with his large hand..” Your dad told me I could use his welder and I really need to get this part welded and back on the corn picker.” I smile and said “I can hook you up with the welder. “

This act in itself was hilarious. My folks were in the middle of remodeling the kitchen and while they waited for moms double wall ovens to come in Dad had hooked up the old stove in the basement so we still had an oven. Mind you we had to go from the kitchen, through the dining room, through the new living room and down the stairs to the basement to use it. Allow me to just add here that baking cookies was an Olympic workout. I unhooked the stove and pushed the wire up through the basement window to Burt who was standing outside in the driveway to retrieve it.   That is all there was to that story. Burt always told me it was then that he saw me as a grown person and not the daughter of that farm couple down the road.

Jump to 1983. My husband and I had just had our first baby. A sweet little girl born on Easter Sunday. What a Blessing. I took that as a special gift from God, not just our baby girl but that she was born early Easter morn. That next week…on the way home from visiting my parents I was driving past Burt’s farm and he was walking on the road. I pulled the old diesel truck over and he opened the door, and I said “Hey Burt, look what the Easter Bunny brought us”. OF course he made over our little bundle as do most polite people, but there was a spark in His eyes as he looked her over. Again, here come that large hand with long over stuffed looking fingers and he so gently reached up to touch her hand and she grabbed ahold of his finger…and he beamed.

I told him he needed to come by my house sometime for coffee whenever he was in my neck of the woods. (Which was just the next town over 8 miles). And He did. In fact Burt came to my house at least twice a week for coffee for over twenty six years! We were like soul mates. Best Friends. We enjoyed so many of the same things, and we could talk for hours and never run out of things to say. And oh what a celebration on a rainy day because that meant two pots of coffee or more. He introduced me to photography and the world always seemed brighter when looking through his lens.

Two more babies were born, and still Burt was around. He seemed to enjoy our children. There was a time when my Dad had a slipped disc in his back and early mornings Burt would come to my old trailer and watch my three babies so I could run down to my dads and do his morning chores for him. For a man that had never had babies of his own…this was a wild adventure. We laughed about some of those moments over and over again.

In l990 Burt’s wife of 44 years passed. She was never happy on the farm in all those years and used alcohol to console her disappointment. There were no children. Shortly after her death Burt ask me if I could help him try to clean up his house a little bit. It had been 44 years of accumulated debris and cats and NOTHING had ever been swept or thrown away. It was a two year process. Still, I enjoyed sitting in Burts home drinking coffee with him and listening to his stories of growing up on that farm. His parents owned it before he did.

In the Spring of 1994 Burt came to me and said he wanted to sell his 200 acre farm and he did not want any of the bigger farmers to have it. He was from the old school and he loved the older way of doing things. He knew I had no money. We truly were as poor as any church mice you could have ever come across and only GOD KNOWS how we survived. So he told me what he wanted for the place, and offered me a land contract with a dollar down. (Not only is that unheard of…..but it has been and will always be the best gift of in my life second only to our babies). Burt was to marry his high school sweetheart and he was moving to Indiana. He 68 years old.

Twenty years have come and gone since then. We took this old ram shackled house and turned it into a happy little farmhouse. Its clean, comfortable and country. When we bought the land and later had it all assessed so we could purchase some equipment they would not even put a value on the house,. It had been neglected for 44 years and over 70 cats were living in this house at one time.  When we moved into the house and started to clean the upstairs in order  to live in it , I many 5 gal buckets of dried cat manure out of the master bedroom alone. People have NO IDEA how much physical work has gone into this house. We hired nothing done as it was too costly. So I learned to plaster, plumb, remove, repair, replace windows, sub floors, build decks. I put the crops in during the spring and I harvested them in the fall. My husband worked off our farm for a larger farmer. So while his time here was always limited….it was because of him that we were able to keep ours going.



The farm in 1940 (top left) then 1990 (Top Right) . Bottom …the Farm as she stands today!

Then Burt was drinking coffee in my house again, but it used to be his house. He loved it. And he would tell me over and over again that some of the changes took his breath away cause that’s how his parents used to do this or that. He kept saying “I bet my parents are so proud of how you have brought life back to this old place…and I bet they shook their at me”…..

Burt ALWAYS believed in preserving the land and while the house he allowed his wife to control, the land he kept on top of. Nutrients and such.

In 2009, Burt was terribly sick, and he wanted to come home to die. His second wife said she could not do it by herself and did not want to go through all that again as she had with her first husband. So, I promised if we could bring him home to pass that I would stay until it was over, and she would never have to administer anything and I would not leave. And I never did. Not even to run to the store. I stayed two weeks and was Burts HOSPICE team. I never dreamed in all the years that we had coffee, the bonding that brought us so close together that I would be the one changing his cath bag, rubbing his nothing but bone body with lotion while he cried over and over from pain. That I would be the one administering the morphine every couple hours. The death pain is an awful one, and the suffering makes no sense to me, I was always on one side of him and his wife was on the other. He kept calling us his Angels and he would hold both of our hands and hug us both at the same time and kept thanking us both for working together and loving him as we did. His wife was wonderfully precious and I will be forever grateful that she allowed me to be there. He kept crying and asking us “why wont the Lord just take me, I’m ready to go, I want out of this pain and suffering”. Our hearts were so heavy as we tried to explain the Lord was just preparing for him on HIS time table.

I was sitting at the end of  his bed, my hand on his shin and listening to some other men talking who were there to see Burt when I felt the life leave his body. Finally. No more suffering for him. I prepared his body for the Coroner, I put on his clean pajamas, and held his eyes closed till they stayed on their own. And I realize that some who read this will not understand those things you have to do. A part of my heart died that day. Burt had become my mother, my sister, my brother, my father, my best friend…..I will never be the same. There is a part of me that wont regrow, I wont be able to regift it to someone else because I buried it with Burt.

Holding a hand as it slips from this world, is an entire post all on its own. I wouldn’t have missed being there with Burt for the world. I wouldn’t have missed loving him, and sharing his life and when you love and share completely….then you realize that it doesn’t just mean when there is an occasional rain storm…it means even IN DEATH.

This photo is not pretty of Dear Burt or myself. These were some pretty dark days, a lot of nights full of pain and broken hearts, a lot of tears and hugs, little to no sleep, some nights laughter filled the room till early morning light and other times the silence was deafening. The waiting was excruciating….  And given the choice………. I would do it all over again. For Him.

I am a better woman today because He first loved me. Because He saw something in me and through him I saw something in me too. What a gift he left me with. What a gift this farm has been for me, for our three babies all grown up and now our ten grand babies get to come here and play and walk around a farm that is still plowing the old fashioned way. Still growing corn without all the sprays and picking ear corn and offloading it into corn cribs instead of taking it to a local mill .

So, for the last couple days I have been out in the fields plowing with my OLIVER (not john deere) tractor and it takes me an entire day to get across a 20 acre field that the BIG BOYS cut through in 30 minutes. I am in an open station, when most are all in sound proof cabs. But that’s ok. I hear things better, I feel the sun and wind on my face, I love the smell of dirt and diesel and breathing in the fragrant Spring as it comes to life.

AND STILL TODAY…..I WEAR HIS COAT. Burt’s chore coat. Its way too big on me, generally have a sweat shirt under it. Its as old and antiquated as my tractor, and older than me. But I wear it anyway….I wear it because this was his parents dream, then it was his dream, and now its been my dream for the last 21 years….and I am thankful that GOD saw fit to bring into my life a person that truly showed me Unconditional Love and acceptance.

I WEAR HIS COAT to feel closer to him, in hopes he can see me wearing It…and can feel how much I miss him…and how precious he was to me, how grateful I am daily for the chance to live on this land and work it, and walk in his foot prints.

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