Category Archives: Farming

by | August 13, 2017 · 8:54 pm

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie…

The rain fell in large comforting drops. It had been a sultry afternoon in our little town of Collettsville. My clothes were soaked through with sweat, so the coolness of the precipitation was appreciated. The rain had stopped my work on the land and allowed me the opportunity to run to the store for fuel for the tractor. Closing the door of my truck, I turned to walk inside to prepay. The first thing that caught my eye was the pair of dogs lying on the porch, one reclining against the wall and the other reposing peacefully upon the bench. Earlier that morning when I passed, they were on the opposite end of the store, sleeping under the shade of the shelter. People passed, coming and going from within the store at an almost constant rate, yet the two seemed none the more bothered. Neither beast stirred from their sleep. Their carefree manner seemed so inviting; it made you almost want to join them.

The first thing that came to mind were the scenes from the Beverly Hillbillies when Jed Clampett would be sitting out in front of the mansion whittling on a stick, while Duke, the old bloodhound would be sleeping nearby. All that was missing was Jed and his carving knife. Then again, other than the fact that the community was in constant motion, there actually plenty of “Jeds” around, they just didn’t have time to stop and sit on this particular day. If one were to pause long enough to take heed, they might see logging trucks roaring past one minute, a landscaping crew the next, or perhaps a caravan of motorcycle riders heading for the winding roads nearby. Yet, amongst all the buzz of the daily grind in the valley, there was also a sense of peace and serenity. Call it the aura of the John’s River that flowed peacefully behind the store, call it the sweetness of the pure mountain air, but it was something that seemed to float over the area no matter the day or time.

One might think of this as a little slice of heaven, where the cool waters flow and the people all say “Howdy,” but it is much more. The history portrays devastation, death, and mourning, but through it all, the hearty mountain people here have survived. The scripture, “My Grace is sufficient for you, we find strength in Him in our weakness,” comes to mind in such moments. Their memories tell of stories of struggle and survival. They seldom shrink from any danger, for their spirits are embodied in the ancient tones of those distant lands from which they traveled centuries before. A hearty breed of people that conquered many lands beyond their own, they now have settled into lives that are more complacent than any time before in their history. Yet, occasionally there are tales that rival those deeds of old.

Today we take for granted so many things.

Ms. Zelma and Ms. Clara shared with me this morning of their Grandmother who was a midwife dating back to the early part of the 20th century. She was so important to the area that she was the only person with a car. She would haul people down pig paths crossed with deep ruts of wagon wheels, car bouncing wildly, while she raced to the next person or persons in need. Ms. Zelma recalled her car doors encompassed both the front and back seats. “Huge doors no child could handle,” she reminisced. Her grandmother was one of the last “Mountain Doctors,” as Granny on the Beverly Hillbillies might say. It was her knowledge of herbs, natural cures, and the “Old Ways,” that made her a true M.D. Today, so much of that past has been forgotten, erased by our failure to communicate that invaluable wealth of information from one generation to the next. So, we rely on pharmaceuticals, food industries, and many other man-made, processed entities we either consume or take to supplement what the Lord hath given. All the while, cases of cancers and heart disease continue to rise to new heights.

In the end, we don’t take what the Lord hath provided, because of what was taken for granted; so much the irony of it all.

If we would only live as God had intended.

Our society’s pace is dictated by the world in which we live, creating little time for the “Old Ways.” We find it easier to justify buying the can of beans rather than canning our own. Meanwhile, the meat we consume has been pumped full of growth hormones, and additives to make it more appealing and sellable in the marketplace. In the old days, the animals would be processed in community hog killings, for example, not only providing the nutrients of protein to live on, but also keeping the purity of the food as it had been intended from the beginning. But not just the food was preserved, so were the ways of the people by coming together as a community. In those gatherings, whether they were snapping beans, putting up hay, or killing hogs, the talked while they worked. There the communication carried on, and in that way, those cures and tales of old would be passed from one generation to the next. Later, in the slower seasons, they would be retold around the winter fireplaces while their bellies would be filled with the foodstuffs that had been prepared in the easy, summer days. When they read from “The Book,” from the faint glow of the lamp light or wood fire, the words would have more significance because the era in which they lived more closely matched those of Biblical times, as God had meant it to be.

If only we’d take the time to slow down and sit for a spell. Like those dogs, let us find ourselves just soaking in the moment. Come join me and sit for spell on a porch somewhere.

“Yep, the rain is good.”

“We been having some goodins’”

“Toad stranglers yesterdee”

“Yep, river come up a bit”

“Let sleeping dogs lie,” they say, and so we will, but not for long.

We must awaken the sleeping fold.

There is much to testify for in this world, and the fields are ready for harvest.

Go yea unto all nations and make disciples for Christ, for this is our commission.

Thanks be to God.

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by | July 3, 2017 · 3:46 am

Day 1: The Sun Rise in Garnier

“The heart is deceitful above all things, And desperately wicked; Who can know it? I, the Lord, search the heart, I test the mind, Even to give every man according to his ways, According to the fruit of his doings.” -Jeremiah 17:9-10

Day 1: The Sun Rises on Garnier: Across a landscape, broken only by the stonework of ancient hands, they work in the coolness of the morning hour. Down the lower reaches of the valley toward Torre Pellice, the sun has not yet risen above the shoulder of yonder mountain. Wildflowers speckle the roadsides, their colors a delicate compliment of their domesticated cousins bountifully arrayed in gardens lining the narrow roadsides, each carefully placed in the precious soil of which there is so little. In the shadowed hour, men work carrying irrigation equipment, placing them where the previous circle of showers has missed. Here the crisp pre-dawn air, one can see their breath. The hayfields they grow have already had their first cutting. These are not expansive pastures as we know them in the U.S.; rather, they are smaller plots, divided up so that once the hay is cut, they become natural intensive grazing lands; everything having a purpose in time. In these Alpine valleys, the growing season is short, so every minute of every day is taken with consideration of the long winter that lay ahead.

The men move quickly, their bodies lean from years of difficult manual labor. Neither of the two I watch are young; one appears to be in his late thirties while the other is at least in his early sixties. They do not seem to tire as they move from one field to the next at a pace that would belie a younger man. In these narrow passages, with sharp precipices falling away below, there isn’t room for mechanized machinery from whence more can be done with less. Here, as in times dating back to antiquity, the work must be done with the toil of one’s back and the sweat of their brow.

From my vantage point, sitting on one of the low rock walls, they see me and smile, waving only briefly before pressing on to the next field. Pencil and paper in hand, my eyes try to convey what my hands cannot feel. Their energy seems to buoy up my own. The expected jet lag seems non existent. My hand races to draw the quickly changing scene. Part of me wants to don my old farm clothes and jump into the fray, yet, there is a realization that cannot be dismissed; they would find my strength and stamina far below what they take for granted. My help may be appreciated but would only slow them down. They have a method to their labor, something which more than a classroom can afford, theirs is a tradition handed down from one generation to the next; a multitude of lifetimes of lessons learned.

The irony of it all.

They willingly devote their lives to living off the land, knowing every nuance necessary to eke out the meager existence from this demanding countryside. In their labors, they take nothing for granted, for years of struggle and toil have taught them well. Yet, in their labor, the body, soul, and spirit are sometimes neglected for the sake of striving to make the reality of life work.

How blessed is the man that understands both; the ability to take nothing for granted, but to worship and fulfill God’s commandment as much as he toils upon the land from whence all creation was given; the internment of time. We reap what we sow. Yet, one can become so consumed with living in faith that he fails to tend to the soil upon which all life is sustained; it is a precarious balance that is not easily maintained. As it says in the Bible, “It rains on the just, and the unjust…”.

Many times, we wish it would just rain.

In our faith, we can be lean and agile in what we do. We can remain close to the Word, living out our lives in Christ-like manner. Striving to be a light to those around us, and in our daily walk alone, we can become a true representation of what it is to be a Christian. Yet, some find this life of daily devotion and devote worship far too difficult. Some even remark it is unrealistic to be so “religious.’ To these naysayers, they must see the results of mankind’s slow erosion of the truth. Around them churches seek to become the center of entertainment, filling the void each day with something, anything, just to get folks in the door. The cumbersome trappings of man’s desires only slow us down. When there aren’t enough reasons to hold a party, they invent meaningful tributes to bygone saints. Over time, well-meaning memorials become tiresome traditions. They weigh our souls and burden the truth with details that are without biblical basis. These become the distractions that often lead many into a world of despair and hopelessness. As Jesus warned, we are saved by Grace, not by the law.

The stone wall upon which I sit, built decades or maybe even centuries before, a testament to the labor of those gone on before. There are no names to remind us of their creator, only the stories passed down from one generation to the next. A legacy can only by as such, if the subsequent generations to come know of it’s history.

When all else falls away in life, when our bodies come to that final resting spot, it is then that those left behind finally take the time to reflect and take note of all that has transpired. The breath of life has left the one they loved, their spirit is gone. All that remains is the legacy of who they were. Those that survive are left wondering what was it all for? What had they done with a life in which they served only one master; themselves? There is nothing left to advance the hope of an eternal life for those that have passed. Yet, when the one that has gone served a higher calling, but still worked the land with regard to being the caretaker for God’s creation, it is then we realize that they had served the real Master. Their final journey not complete, for one day, they too will reach the right hand of God the Father, and then, when the trumpet sounds, they will have all eternity in which to take a respite of their previous life’s toil. When we see a culmination of a life well-served and a life well-lived, we can rejoice in seeing what it is to be one with Christ. In the knowing, there is a peace returned to our soul.

A cool breezed passes before my countenance as I return to the present.  The sprinklers pulsate in a syncopation while in the distance, the roar of the torrent can be heard. It’s a constant reminder of the abundance of refreshing, life-giving fluid that is necessary to sustain everything that lives. There is the feeling of an energy it exudes, just by the very sound of its distant, gentle white noise. An occasional songbird breaks the trance. Above the dark nearby hillsides, the glow of the sunrise begins to brighten the upper reaches of the still snow-covered peaks of the mountain tops. Above their majestic summits, the blue skies show no trace of clouds.

We know not what lies ahead. Nearby the rooster crows as the shadows slowly slip away. God’s creation stands before us and the day is young. What lies beyond the next bend in the road only time will tell.

A beautiful day awaits.

Thanks be to God.

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by | November 30, 2016 · 9:54 pm

Just a Few Old Memories…

My little body could barely see over the dash of that ancient truck as we rattled across the pasture that cold frosty morning, checking the cows in my grandpa’s herd. Trees stood like stark skeletons along the fence lines guarding against the frozen winds. The ground was covered with a heavy frost that pitter pattered curious mounds of fluffiness from one edge of the field to the next. Below the dusting of white lay grass still green from the summer growing season. It was early winter, and several of the fall calves were struggling with the recent span of bitter weather we’d been having. Grandpa headed the nose of the old Ford slowly into the midst of the herd. As I peered through the side window by breath fogged up the glass causing the cattle beyond to appear as ghostlike images. We were surrounded. The tires made crunching noises on the frozen grass as we carefully pulled ahead. Fearing he might hit one of those massive red and white Hereford bodies, my little hands grabbed the dusty dash bracing myself. To my amazement, the cows parted like clouds passing the peak of a mountain, steady and sure. Mommas with babies in tow, all bemoaning their plight as they slowly moved aside, watched us as we passed. Awestruck with their size, it perplexed me how they could be so easily persuaded to move without any force. Unbeknownst to me, they knew my grandpa and his vehicle well enough that just the sound of him rumbling down the gravel road to the gate would be enough to draw them closer seeking sweet feed or hay. Now, in their midst, surrounding my the heavy breaths seen with each 20140501_181720puff, there was no fear on either side of our consciousness, their or ours.

The familiarity of each was comforting. Like old friends, we felt at ease with one another.

Inside the warm cab of the truck, the smell of leather, sweat, and accumulated oil-covered, diesel-laden rags made for a memory of its own. When the aroma of the cattle surrounded us, the two melded into one forming a panoramic odor unlike any other. The multitude of riches that embraced the senses were too wonderful to forget, the visual, aromatic, and audible.

Grandpa would point to this or that cow and tell me about them, as if quoting from a playbook of their lives and how he might have to do this or that to one of them, none of which made any sense to a four-year-old. All I could understand was that we were “Working the Cows,” as grandma would say, as she proudly shooed us out the back door of their farmhouse as she began to clean up from breakfast and then began preparing the day’s meals. “You men go work the cows, and I’ll have dinner ready for yuins when you get back.” She spoke “Wabash” as we said of folks in that area of southern Indiana. We would eventually return later in the day to rich, tasty smells of freshly baked bread and cakes, along with delectable foods that only now come back to my memory; blessings long passed.

When grandpa had planting or harvesting that would keep him in the fields for hours and days-on-end, grandma would find ways to entertain us. It wasn’t past her to dig up a few fishing worms, throw them into an old Folgers Coffee can, grab a cane pole and then tell me, “Son, let’s go fishing.” We’d walk together hand-in-hand down the lane in front of that old farmhouse to the big pond at the end of what seemed an endless trail. Together, we’d sit on that old wooden dock, bait the hooks, catch the fish, and then joyfully bring back the same coffee can full of bluegill.

One overly productive fishing expedition, Grandma, said we could eat the fish or feed them to the cats. Our coffee can was overflowing with our catch. I looked around at the plethora of cats. None of the feral beasts had ever allowed me to pet them nor to make friends with them. Now all of a sudden, they seemed so helpless. A voice inside me spoke, and immediately I felt the urge to provide for those poor old hungry barn cats, so we opted for feeding the needy instead of worrying about trying to filet the tiny fish. Before the fish hit the ground, the cats had emerged from their hiding spots, blanketing the catch of the day. Within a couple of minutes, the entire feast was devoured. Not one crumb or scale was left behind. My joy was in that moment, watching those cats savor the morsels we had brought home while having had the fun of catching them. Our work had a purpose, and each action was accounted for in the results that awaited.

Lesson after lesson of life played out before me on that farm.

Years later, on the other side of life’s fence, I can look back and see how God had prepared me for the journey. Each snapshot of those moments was special. They taught me everything from interactions with other beings to the frugality of existence. The sheer isolation made you appreciate anything that came to life either live or inanimate. From the round river rock pebbles that made the gravel road to the tall blades of grass in the pasture that grew like a forest in the summer, there was a world of exploration and fascination to keep a young boy entertained for days on end.

But the fondest of all were the times Grandma would read to my from her Bible, often in the evening after the meal was done. Those precious words and stories made me want to know more about this Son of Man called Jesus. I would beg for more, even as I was being tucked into bed for the night, as Grandma kissed me goodnight. There safe and sound in that warm feather bed, I’d drift off to sleep, like in the warmth of the cab of that truck with Grandpa, all cozy and warm. There was a feeling that God was wrapping his arms around me and that there was nothing at all in the world to fear.

Sleep came easily.

Thanks be to God.

 

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by | July 25, 2016 · 9:45 pm

The Sound of Silence…

“…A time to keep silence, And a time to speak;…” – Ecclesiastes 3:7

The words hit me like the stark, blank-pastel green wall of the hospital room opposite my bed. It was 1963, and my bedroom was the ICU unit of the Deaconess Hospital. My playground was underneath the shelter of the clear plastic oxygen tent, reserved for children with pneumonia; mine the second in as many years as I was old. Later I would learn of my near death encounters with double pneumonia. There was no fear in my life back then. The concerns on the faces of the adults who came to see me only lit up when they saw my smile from behind the veiled curtain of fractured light. Even at that tender age, there was a lesson in leaving as my heart would break each time the goodbyes came. I didn’t understand why so often my visitor’s would leave, turning their heads, wiping something from their faces as they left my room, always as I watched their backsides leave through the door, my heart would sink.

The silence would return; silence that would feel like the weight of the world held it shut.

From the foot of my bed, the pump of the oxygen tank hissed, the only reminder of life beyond my own body. There was a lot of time for my toddler mind to wander, yet there was always a presence there with me; call him my guardian angel. He would sit with me and warm me when the room would turn bitter cold, he would dry the tears from my eyes as I often recalled those faces from my short span of life that would come to mind. Again and again, I would try to replay the sunshine and laughter from what little memories life had taught me to this point. He would console me without words, but just the loving grace of God that would flow about us, like the words from the Bible floating in and around us, kissing our lips and blessing our spirits. There would come an awareness of beauty, one that I still cherish to this day, one that would inspire.

The silence became my teacher.

Many a long, lonely isolated day was spend in my early youth on the farms in and around New Harmony. The pastures, cows, hogs, and chickens became my companions since there were no other children around. Extended periods of solitary exploration taught my mind to create a world that would entertain me. We would speak to the animals and in a sense, they would understand. From that came an instinctual connection from which farming would become my second nature. My youthful heart ached for other children. On days there was an announcement of someone coming to visit, I would sit by the window facing the gravel road for hours at a time, waiting,…watching,…looking for the dust cloud to boil as a car or truck might approach. My heart would race as a vehicle would appear, and I would then dart for the back porch, running as fast as my little legs would carry me to the edge of the front yard, lined by the might oaks. There as the old farm truck would rumble past, a hand would shoot up from within the dark cab, waving hello. There my slim, tiny figure would stand like a statue, numb to the emptiness that filled my life. Sadly, I would only watch as the dust cloud would envelop my minuscule frame, turning my body one color; ashen. Grandma would call me back inside, realizing I had once more left the house. She was my caretaker, my keeper. Having survived Tuberculosis, she understood my condition required time to heal. So, back inside, back into the safety of the house; at least until I could find a way to slip past her watchful eye and back out into the barnyard.

Silence would return, and my soul would ache.

In all of that time of waiting and listening, a vast sea of words continued to grow within. Like a silo of summer grain filled to the brim, I desperately wanted to speak, yet it was not my time.

Grandma Mary had an old manual typewriter sitting in her spare bedroom. Occasionally, I would hear her pecking typewriteraway on it. Her experience working as a secretary at IBM made her an expert so that the sound was intoxicating to my musical ear. One day, after my begging her to put paper in it so I could learn to type real words too, she finally obliged me. After a very short lesson on where to place my hands, I began. Happily, my fingers started to type the syncopated rhythm I had heard her perform. Certain of my masterpiece, I then pleaded with her to read what I had written. Being the loving lady she was, she happily attempted to translate what a three-year old’s random, incomprehensible attempt to type might say. If there had been such a thing as video in that day, it surely would have made it viral as we rolled on the floor at the words that came from her mouth; precious memories.

There on that farm, beyond the reaches of anything human, other than my maternal grandparents, my world was formed. The companion from my hospital bed would walk with me and together, we would explore the world. The fresh air and countless hours of playing outside allowed my weak lungs to strengthen. Bit by bit, my color returned until one day, my grandmother would remark at how much better I looked. The comment returns to me even now, as if she was amazed at the turn around from the sickly, near-death child, to the vibrant, healthy, young lad that I was slowly becoming. There must have been enough doubt in her mind that she was amazed by what she saw. God was surely with us.

It wasn’t much longer after that, when I felt alive and full of spirit, that my friend, the guardian angel, left. Now I don’t mean he fully left, but rather, the feeling of his presence weakened to the point, that I knew he had gone. He would be there, time and again, when there would be a breach in my soul or some other near tragedy would affect my life. No longer would we walk together on the sunny pastures, but it was okay. I knew I wasn’t alone.

The silence had taught me well.

Someday, it would be my time to speak. Yes, someday there would be a time and place.

“A time to gain,     And a time to lose; A time to keep,     And a time to throw away; 7 A time to tear,     And a time to sew; A time to keep silence,     And a time to speak; 8 A time to love,     And a time to hate; A time of war,     And a time of peace”- Ecclesiastes 3:6-8

Thanks be to God.

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by | June 18, 2016 · 9:36 pm

Front Porch of Life…

“ For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. 12 Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. 13 And you will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart”-Jeremiah 29:11-1320160612_180149

After the day’s toil has passed, the supper dishes have been put away, and the dirt washed from our bodies, we often found ourselves poised on the precipice of our world, watching the final touches of God’s hand paint the western sky with a beauty so bold, no mortal brushstroke will ever compare, from comfort of our humble front porch.

Upon the boards that I nailed into place with my own hands, we looked out upon years of sacrifice and labor. From nothingness, we had created a home. From the wilderness, we had built a homestead. Often armed with nothing more than a shovel and hammer, we built what we thought would be our dream home. Beyond the gurgling waterfall of the Koi pond, lay the greenery in summer of the front yard that ran over across the drive into the fenced pasture. There, grazing lazily in the setting rays of the sun, our beef cattle would stand as if posing for the Master’s hand. Just knowing they were there to call upon should we have a time of need or food was a comfort. I can still hear my Uncle John exclaim the day we sat on the swing looking out upon the vista, “Timmy, your cows are looking mighty fat and slick,” which was one of ultimate praise in cattlemen’s terms. My Uncle John and I shared the love of being in the country as did many other guests who came to see us.

There were many more visits from family that often culminated at the end of long days there on that front porch. Many times we would talk long past sunset, gently swaying back in forth in the rockers or swing. There we would reminisce and share stories of long ago. Memories would flood our minds, and those of other such places would surface. My grandma Tron’s favorite sharing place was also in her swing. There on the edge of the quaint little town of New Harmony, with a pace so slow you could barely feel the motion, we would sit and solve life’s mysteries or struggles. There sitting across from grandpa, who had more often than not, fallen off to sleep, we’d learn about stories in the Bible and lessons learned in life. There from her swing we could look out past the great sycamore trees into the pasture next door where dairy cows would graze. It was where I learned that the pace of life doesn’t have to drive you crazy if only you would allow yourself the time to slow down and experience God’s blessings that were all around you.

Of course, we weren’t the only ones that had enjoyed the view from our front porch. There were the odd visitor or intruder. From the geese that had chased the children up from the pond to the kittens that would pounce and roll, to the ponies that decided grass wasn’t as much fun to romp and play on as the wood of the front porch. Just imagine the clatter of hooves resonating from within the house compared to that of little children scampering in play. It was any wonder I could sleep on those days while working the night shift, yet I sometimes found a way.

As the years went by, we added more landscaping and walkways which only increased the feeling of being more of an estate than a farm. Yet, in the coolness of the evenings, that space became our sanctuary in the wilderness where we could reflect on all that we had done and what was to come. Beyond the dark western tree line was the unknown; the future. On that porch, I had watched my children grow. Many late evenings or early mornings I would find comfort in the swing, as I would wrap their tiny bodies in blankets and rock them gently while singing hymns, often falling asleep myself as we became one with the world around us. I would awaken with a start to the motionless swing and realize we were at peace. Those are moments I will always cherish.

There on the outdoor abode my children played and viewed the world around them from the safety of that gentle loft, high above the terrestrial surface below. There they would be emboldened to go out and explore finding all sorts of bugs, toads, and critters that they would unearth in their daily forays into the unknown and bring back to their home base, the porch. As time progressed, we watched them grow into the young adults; the once daunting height of that porch had become little more than a mere step to them. In my mind, I had figured that eventually I would even be watching my own life’s sunset from that place, but it was not meant to be. God had another plan.

What I had created within the boundaries of my own mind was nothing in that of the Master’s plan, it was only a stepping stone. Two days ago, at 3:59 pm, the place that I had built to last our lifetime became someone else’s dream home. Two days ago, the step we had taken to answer the calling from God became a reality.

Today, I awoke to the feeling of being somewhere between the Red Sea and the River Jordan. We have left all we have known and worked for in our previous life behind. We have died to our former selves in order to answer the call. Now, we wait to see where He has us to go. Where will our promised land be? Where is our river to cross?

These and many more questions face us each day, but each day, I open the pages to the only place I know where the answer can be found; my Bible.

Seek and ye shall find, knock, and the door will be opened.

All we have to do is leave our porch and answer Him.

Thanks be to God.

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by | May 1, 2016 · 7:25 pm

A Walk in the Garden…

Last Sunday, after a morning of worship, I took an afternoon off to bask in the warm sunshine and walk in the garden. The rows of lettuce, cabbage, radish, and potatoes were doing quite well considering we had little rain in recent weeks. In fact, the taters were doing so well that they really needed some dirt mounded up around them. In the wanderlust of leaving the house on such a beautiful, heaven-sent day, I had forgotten to grab my garden hoe. Regardless, I plopped down upon my knees and began to scoop handfuls of loose soil about the dark green sprouts. The warmth of the earth trickled over my palms flooding my head with precious memories of grandma and dad working on Sunday afternoon in their gardens.

“There is something about working in the dirt with your hands,” father would tell me as he showed me how to cultivate the rich, dark soil of the fertile lands along the Wabash River. “You don’t need a hoe, dirtyhandsjust use your hands,” he said as he held up his dirt ladened palms. The black earth had worked its way underneath his nails so that he honestly looked as if he had been living as a barbarian for some time.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use a hoe,” I asked, not understanding the message.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “How you gonna feel the earth with a hoe,” he responded.

So, there is sat, hands covered in dirt as I pulled heaping piles of rich, dark red dirt up around my taters thinking of those sweet days gone by. The garden and springtime were essential to our families. Grandma always canned as if she were feeding a multitude, which generally she was. You never left her house without some canned goodie or baked something or other. The root cellar always had the essential to last us through the year. The only time I recall going to the grocery for her was the time Deep and I got in trouble with the supposed pet skunk, but then that’s another story. The trip to the grocery in that circumstance was in order to air us out on our half-mile journey to and from the store. If you pulled up to grandpa and grandma’s and couldn’t find anyone at the house, you knew they were either in the kitchen garden just behind the house or across the field in the big garden behind Mrs. Wolf’s house. You would know to be careful when you reached the small pasture gate. It was maybe fifty yards across to the garden gate, but it might as well have been a mile when one of K.D.’s bulls was in there. So, with great caution, you always were certain to look both ways before crossing to see what manner of livestock might be grazing nearby.

From time to time, even when I didn’t have a place to call my own, like now, I found a way to have a garden. When my wife and I were stationed at Warner Robbins AFB, in Warner Robbins Georgia, I found that airmen were allowed garden lots. All you had to do was sign up at the MWR Center, and they would assign you your very own plot. There in that foreign soil, mostly sand and clay, I found another crop of vegetables soon filling our produce baskets to overflowing. It was there that I also learned how to grow peanuts, something I had never imagined. But once more, armed with just a hoe and a tater fork, I turned the soil the old-fashioned way, by hand. Grandma would tell me, “The connection to the earth and the land make us one with our maker.” She would then gently remind me the passage from the book of Genesis, “In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread Till you return to the ground, For out of it you were taken; For dust you are, And to dust you shall return.”

So many lessons learned, many while working in the garden, so many memories made. Those are seeds of faith planted which are to be harvested throughout our lives.

I don’t guess it’s any wonder that one of my favorite old time gospel hymns is “In the Garden.”

The day that Ms. Frankie and I sang it in the church was another special day in my life. Ms. Frankie had suffered from Alzheimers for some time. At that point in her life, the illness had progressed to the point she could no longer read or write. But when we would sing together, she remembered more lyrics than I did to many songs; all you had to do was get her started. That morning, there in Goldston United Methodist Church, we made beautiful music together and memories to last a lifetime.

Ms. Frankie passed a couple years after that, and they played the video from that day at her funeral. The tears rolled down my cheeks as I listened with bowed head to the sound of her singing once more, knowing that she was watching us all from heaven that day, singing along while holding her husband John’s hand. She was indeed walking in His garden that day as well.

Here is the video of that wonderful day.

Sometimes, my hands in the earth are all I need to make my day complete.

We came from the earth and to the earth, we shall return. There we will become one with the soil and add to the abundant life everlasting of those who come afterward. “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living being.” – Genesis 2:7

Yes, walk in the garden and feel the presence of our Lord. Your life will never be the same.

Thanks be to God.

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by | March 2, 2016 · 10:01 pm

The End of Your Rope…

“But He knows the way that I take; When He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold. My foot has held fast to His steps; I have kept His way and not turned aside.”-Job 23:10-11

Tonight as I sat in the men’s Bible study group, I turned our book to a page with a scene of imagesG2YCTXXKcowboys driving cattle and the picture of a lareat in the top right-hand corner of the page. As I looked at the coiled rope, my mind drifted back to my farm. Once again, I could feel the rough strands of the formed rope, the heat from the threads as they slid through the grasp of my leather gloves as the 500 lb. bull began to run away from me. He escaped our pasture and was happily grazing in the neighbors green grass when I found him. In the past, he had little inclination to flee me and in fact seemed quite docile for an Angus. However, when the loop of the lasso landed perfectly around his neck, he suddenly turned into a raging beast hell bent on leaving me as far behind as quickly as possible. . The thought of him taking off and the fact that I wasn’t riding a horse or anything of greater mass hadn’t developed in my preparations to restrain him, sadly enough. In other words, “What was I thinking?”

As much as I tried to cinch the rope, there was no stopping the force on the other end of the rope. Equations of Physics flashed through my brain, F=ma, momentum of an opposite and greater force cannot be restrained by a lesser force and so on

In other words, I realized I was literally nearing the end of my rope.

Many people talk about their lives flashing before their eyes in the last seconds of a life threatening situation; mine only wanted to resolve how to not lose the calf on the other end of my tether. “For once he was free, there might not be any getting him back,” I thought to myself. As I fought for control of the vanishing line, my eyes scanned for anything of size, a tree, a stump, a rock, anything that might provide me something to leverage against the tempest in flight; nothing other than a sapling or two were nearby. The tree line was well beyond my reach. Fortunately, I had driven the old 77 Chevy to the top of the pasture. Digging the heels of my boots in as the rope continued to slip, I strained to work my body and bull toward the pickup.

Time was running out.

In life, we often find that we continue on with the same old day-after-day routines. Fearful of stepping out of our comfort zones, strapped by a mortgage, a car payment and many other bills that are a result of raising a family, we feel as if life is a raging bull at the end of our rope, pulling us helplessly along. Courage to begin digging in your heels against the beast is the first step. However, to fully halt the runaway train, you have to finally say, “No more,” and put an end to the madness. You have to tie it off and end the struggle.

To leave it all behind is one of the most difficult decisions in life I have ever had to make. I knew that if I had continued, the end would not have been pretty. So frequently was I waking up on the wrong side of the road driving home from working the night shift that I began to fear for others more than for myself. So I prayed the prayer that I knew God would answer, but couldn’t believe it would have been answered in the manner in which it was.

So we stepped out into our leap of faith.

Are there days I wonder if it was the right thing to do to my family? Yes.

Are there days I wonder if I can make it? Yes.

Are there days I have self-doubt? Yes.

Yet through it all, I try to remember the verse from Job, “My foot has held fast to His steps; I have kept His way and not turned aside.”

How far can we go? Are we at the end of our rope? How much time do we have left?

bullcalfA beast on the other end of my rope had given me the premonition of sage advice I seek tonight. Therein I realized, time was running out and there would only be so much of it left before it would be too late to change, too late to end the madness, too late to save the ones I loved.

With only inches to go before the lariat ran out, I found the back bumper of my old truck and wrapped enough of it around the metal to halt the rampage. From the other end of the rope came a violent jolt. The truck lurched backward but stopped.

We both stood panting.

I had barely made it, just barely.

The brief pause allowed me a sparse few more inches, enough to make one more wrap of the rope around the thick metal. Sweat ran into my eyes stinging and blurring my vision.

The world around us seems to continue to spiral out of control. So many are lost in sin, lost in their own realities of an imaginary world to the point they cannot seem to stop. We are running out of time to reach them. Yes, we are nearing the end of our rope. We must seek that concrete base to which we can tie off and hold fast, we must help them and those around us find that steel bumper of the old Chevy or that rock of faith; Jesus Christ.

Time is running out. What are you waiting for?

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by | December 28, 2015 · 7:36 pm

In Memory of the Herd…

The newborn calf lay before me, its body still wet from its mother licking her, doing 1013088_10201316525421013_897357306_nanything she could to revive the nearly dead infant. The heat was oppressive as I wiped the sweat from my eyes, trying to figure out what to do next. Something was dreadfully wrong. Colleen, the calf’s mother, had never had problems calving and was one of my best and oldest brood cows. Yet, she was stressed to her breaking point and the stretch of hottest days this summer didn’t help. I had been away from the farm during her birth and was just now coming upon the scene. The neighbors had called to alert me to the fact there was something wrong; the growing flock of buzzards was their omen. As I approached the baby, buzzards advanced with me setting Colleen into a frenzy of protective moves trying her best to keep them at bay. As I knelt to pet the calf and feel for life, there was still warmth to the body, just barely. As I examined her, the problem became painfully obvious; she was blind. The eyes were clouded over with a milky film which had prevented her from being able to leave the shelter of the scrub brush in which she was trapped.

The death birds had an uncanny ability to sense death’s door even before it opened. They were sometimes known to assist the animal’s end by beginning to dig out the soft pockets of flesh, a torment of unrealistic thought, something Satan himself might prescribe. Thus, as I tried to help bring the calf to safety, the vultures tried to impede our progress by lurching within reach of the precious cargo I tried to carry through the thick underbrush. Thankfully, Colleen was nearby and provided the additional protection we needed in order to escape. It was then I realized her lower udders had been ripped from some ancient barbed wire that was in the thicket from where we had just emerged; another problem and probable cause to the calf not nursing. Time was not on our side; I had multiple problems and things were not getting any easier.

Looking back, it was a touch and go prospect from the very beginning. The lack of colostrum in the calf’s system was the first and immediate setback, not to mention the extreme dehydration that had nearly killed it. Then the fact that the triple digit heat was wearing us all thin, physically and emotionally. I immediately prepared a mixture of colostrum and Gatorade to feed her, hoping to quickly replace her lost fluids, it was all we could do at that point. Nearby in the pasture, Colleen paced back and forth on the fence line trying to keep an eye on her newborn.

Had this happened a few years before, I certainly would have lost her. However, the good Lord prepares with each step along the way, teaching, strengthening and guiding us so that we may become who we need to be at the right moment in time. This was most certainly the case because it took every bit of animal husbandry I had learned, every ounce of stamina and all the faith I could muster to believe in what I knew. I would give her every vitamin shot, antibiotic, and extra energy supplements I could find in addition to helping feed her since her mother was still wounded and in pain from the fencing injury. Meanwhile, I had to try to doctor Colleen’s ripped udder sack. So many problems persisted that I could have just easily given up, walked away and let nature takes its course, but that wasn’t my way. I scoured every incident I could find online and spoke to fellow farmers and vets who knew of similar cases. She had evidently been born while either she or her mother had a fever, possibly from a flu-like illness, thus the blindness. After the virus had passed, it was a matter of keeping infection at bay. The good news was that sometimes the blindness was only temporary. To help heal her eyes, I would rub the antibiotic directly into them, like washing away the clouds.

More than once I would go out to where I had penned mother and calf to find a near lifeless body and once more, vultures close enough to take the precious being before her time. Each time I would chase them off and to my best to doctor the needs of the young animal. Toward the end of the third day of round the clock care, I had done everything that could possibly be done for her. By then I had named her Helen, after the other famous blind person I had learned about so many years before. It was then I realized I had done all I could do and God would have to take it from here. Early the next morning on the fourth day, I checked on mother and calf to find she had finally nursed on her own; thank you, Lord! The wounds on Colleen had finally healed enough so that she could feed her baby.

From then on, both calf and cow improved and before long, it was just a distant memory.

936431_10201386352046635_1598802811_nHelen grew to be a fine brood cow in her own right, taking after her mother. Her eyesight eventually returned to normal and you would have never known she had once been blind. Colleen would have other calves after that summer without any problems. Some might say it was time for her to go to the sale, “Put wheels on her,” they would add. When you raise a herd from the beginning and know the animals like the back of your hand, there are times you know deep down that there is more to the story than meets the eye; as was the case that beleaguered summer of Helen’s birth.

I’ve been around cattle most of my life. Growing up in southern Indiana, both my paternal and maternal grandparents had cows; dairy and beef, respectively. So it was nothing new when my dad raised one or two for sustenance. However, when the size of the herd gets smaller, the contact becomes more personal, almost too personal. I can recall the time my dad described taking the steer we named “Bull” off to market. As he looked back in the rearview mirror, he could see an animal that had been nothing but trouble. Bull was always getting into some sort of mischief or another. One time, in particular, I can vividly remember seeing him walk up below me as I sat on the roof of the barn, nailing on the new tin. He picked up a bag of roofing nails I had left on the ground and began to shake them like a dog shakes a toy. Nails flew from one end of the barnyard to the other. Yet, through all that, you might think my father would be glad to take him to slaughter, yet here he was looking back with tears in his eyes. That’s the moment you realize the animal you raise is more than just another meal, but a member of the family.

So, this past summer when I had to sell off my herd, it was more than just simply cattle in bloomstaking animals to market; it was saying goodbye to a family that I had grown for the past 18 years. Each momma cow had her own characteristics, traits and look that I knew without having to use numbers or brands. Their calving seasons were as predictable as the coming dawn. There was a comfort knowing that if all else failed, we still would have a reserve of food and resources if needed; yes, my cattle were in a sense, my farm bank, my life’s work.

There was recently a sign that was going around for a Christmas gift that said something like, “Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy cows, and that’s pretty much the same thing.”

Many won’t get it, but for those few who’ve ever owned cattle, we do.

“Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” –Matthew 11:28

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by | April 23, 2015 · 5:07 am

The Comforting Soul of the Barn Studio…

2013-01-03 21.17.25-1It pretty much started back when the late John W. Parsons said to me, “Do you have an out building you can practice in?”

J.W., we called him for short, was referring to me learning how to play the fiddle and that it would be best if I had somewhere to practice, lest I drive my wife crazy with the horrible sounds of a beginner fiddle player in the house.

“No,” I respectfully replied.

“Well, you better build one or you won’t be married long,” he said, and laughed before refocusing on where we had left off in our lesson that evening.

As a matter of fact, I had already begun adding onto the original section of barn I had built years before, unsure of how it might be used. I now had a reason to make part of the new addition somewhere I could get out of the weather and perhaps practice my newfound instrument. So with the purpose of creating a room to play music in, the studio in the barn began to take shape. I purchased ship-lapped poplar from Foster Rives, who had cut it from local lumber and planed it in his own sawmill just down the road from the farm. I installed it after putting up the walls, roof and outer shell of the barn, completing what would be a welcome retreat. Over time, the poplar becamed naturally aged to the golden hue it displays today. The wood stove came later, moved up from the old cabin, making the studio complete.

IMG_20140101_084557The cold rainy days when the farm work had to be put on hold, I would eagerly retreat to the studio. There I would build a fire in the woodstove and soon, the beautiful aromas of coffee brewing in the old percolator pot mixing with that of the hickory in the fire blending with the faint smells of the sweet hay in the hayloft just outside the studio door combined to make an ambiance that would start my creative juices flowing. There in the studio, I once more revisited old talents I had unintentionally left behind; starting to paint once again after years of leaving my paint brushes in the closet. It was here that I also rediscovered my writing, after years of leaving the pen lie dormant, with the occasional story that might rise to the surface, perculating like the coffee in the pot on top of the wood stove. And, of course, I would practice my fiddle, alone and away from ears that might be bothered by the slowly diminishing sour notes that had once been produced in abundance in my early days of learning.

Inside the upstairs room in the barn, strains of music wafted from the CD player. Songs were played according to the activity I was performing which accompanied my subconscious as I worked either on portraits, landscapes, stories for my book or just playing along on the fiddle. This was my home-away-from-home. Outside the windows, the world would present itself as the farm around me lived out its daily routine, regardless of the elements. As the rain pitter-pattered down, the cows might lie lazily underneath the cover of the trees that stood near the chicken coop. The chickens would cluck and crow, scratching the ground paying no mind to the nearby bovine neighbors as they walked about their runs, safe from the world and uncaring of the weather. Their only cares being that they might find a morsel of protein wiggling about in the dark earth.

Inside the comfort of the studio, I watched the seasons pass; winter, spring, summer and fall, safe from their temperature extremes, yet thankful that each were tranquil in their own right. Eventually, when my children were old enough, they would join me in the room up in the barn to paint, play music or just warm themselves by the woodstove if the opportunity presented itself. At times, I would cook meals in the cast iron skillet on the stove top, making the room come alive with smells of fried sausage or bacon. To me, there aren’t any restaurants to which I am aware that can compare to a home cooked meal on an old wood stove. As I would sit back in the easy chair and savor the delectable morsels of food, the air would still linger with the soothing smell of fresh cooked food, wood smoke and hot fresh coffee still bubbling up in the percolator.

Yes, the barn studio is someplace I will miss once we move. It is someplace that the kids will undoubtedly never forget, knowing that it too became a retreat to which they could go to reinvent themselves and become one with their inner person. We all need a place to go where life can be left at the door, where we may once again turn our thoughts inward and be at peace with our soul; giving ourselves to the gifts with which God has blessed us.

May we never forget our studio in the barn.

See how this studio can become a welcome retreat for you by clicking here.

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by | November 28, 2014 · 1:37 am

Cold Rain of Warm Memories

rain“The magnitude of any one day is compromised by its passing quickly into the next, a mere moment in time which soon fades into the collective memory of our past.” – T. Tron

Today as I ran in the chilly forty-degree drizzle, thoughts of past times would come to me as momentary glimpses afforded me when the passing cars would allow. Knowing I had to be aware of my surroundings, I couldn’t just drift off into deep thought, so safety was of the essence and thought was only of consequence.

My training was an easy ten mile jaunt over hilly terrain along the main vein of travel that connected our countryside with the link to Hwy 421 and Siler City, known as McClaurin Road. I don’t like to run the route, which it is probably one of my least favorites of all the places I’ve run because of the traffic, but it’s easy and convenient. Its ease of access reminded me of one of my first routes; another country road back in Indiana.

The road back then was also paved, but rough from wear during the winter months of freezing, the ground being forced to and fro from the tumultuous upheavals of freezing and thawing. It was also one large loop that was almost exactly three miles in length, perfect for the beginning runner. The only problem with the course was the traffic, it too being a little narrow country road. Of course thirty years ago, traffic was much lighter than today, almost everywhere and especially out in the countryside of southern Indiana. There was one major hill on the road, one we called Oak Hill. I don’t know where it received its name, but it was quite possibly an island many eons ago when the world was in its infancy and that area was covered with water. However, towering above the fields of corn, it was in a sense an icon of sorts, standing tall above the sea of green below, one that would become golden when the tassels atop the corn would come into bloom. On those summer days, the smell of the tar on the road would mix with the smell of the endless rows of corn, one I can still remember even today. The air was so thick with the smell of corn you could almost taste it.

Here in this area of North Carolina fields of corn are rare.

So as I ran along watching and listening for the next car, my mind would search for the next trigger to take it off into another void of thought and recollection.

I passed the home of one of the local newspaper writer, Bob Wachs. Evidently some of the cars passing me had been some of that family that had just gathered on his front porch and were being greeted and welcomed in the door as I passed by. I wondered how many of them noticed me just then, or if they had no idea I even existed as they had reached their destination and the joyous family reunion was just beginning. I was the onlooker, like the cattle lying in the pasture nearby, watching the humans carry on as if in some big celebration of sorts that kept them inside and out of sight. The thought came to me, “I wonder what they’d do if I just ran up and invited myself in for dinner?” I began to drift off to Thanksgiving Dinner’s past when suddenly another car tore around the curve ahead forcing me off the road and quickly searching for safe footing as the blast of fury and wind passed.

I continued on, thankful that I wasn’t tied to any table and was free to immerse myself in the cold, fresh air of outdoors this dreary overcast day. It’s funny how days like today make you want to stay inside and hide from the raw embrace of the outside air, but once you step outside and take the plunge into the elements, you find it’s not all that bad; in fact it’s almost refreshing. However, as I neared the end of my run I noticed the wind changing direction and the temperature seemed to dip even farther. If I hadn’t already had a full steam of body heat created, I would’ve certainly found myself colder than I could already gladly entertain. Thankful to find myself trudging up the last big hill toward our farm, I watched as my own herd of cattle lay in repose, chewing their cuds and watching another being trot by, uncaring, unfazed by my presence. Their nonchalant attitude gave me comfort, for they were at peace, and with that knowing, so was I.

After I had reached my stopping point, I walked a bit and soon found myself in the rocker on the back porch with my shoes and socks off for a few brief moments. As I cooled down I thought of the times I would wade in the icy waters of the pool at my mom’s house in Florida the last time I was there for her funeral a couple Decembers ago. I thought of my pond down below the house and wondered how cold it might be today and if wading in it would also bring me back to that pool in Florida. My thought was broken by the hunter’s truck driving back down the hill, obviously taking a break for lunch as it had just passed noon after I returned home. The mist was heavier now and again, I was thankful to have the shelter of the porch upon which I sat to cover me as I sat resting in the rocking chair. The handrail of the porch gleamed proudly with the new coat of paint, another task completed, and another step closer to the sale of the farm.

There would be no turkey dinner for us today, but that’s okay.

Both of my children had oral surgery yesterday and both are on liquid diets. Their ordeal was precipitated by the fact that they wouldn’t miss school after the surgery if done during the Thanksgiving break. Meanwhile, my wife is sick with a head cold and I have to work tonight; fun I know. Yet even with all this, I know there is a purpose for what we do. There will be other Thanksgivings; there will be other dinner tables to gather around, all this I know and with that I can also take comfort.

Yes, today was a good day, and for that I was thankful.

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