My Dad

He can (and does) talk to anyone.  He barters with the best, because farmers have that non-taxable business down.  He apparently has some genetic traits along those lines too, as displayed in his older brother’s World War 2 experiences.

He shook President Nixon’s hand at the State Fair, and I’ll never forget his expression and comment.  "His hand was pretty soft."  Guess that says a lot.

He spent a lot of time roller skating with his pals in the winter and middle of summer.  He doesn’t do that anymore, but when I was fresh out of college and unemployed, he thought it’d be a good idea if I went roller skating with them too.  It did the trick, as those fellas were a hoot.  Now my old high school pals are encouraging me to roller skate once a month.  When I can get around the kid obligations, I plan on doing it; hopefully next month.

I’ve seen him stand on tiptoe on this old do-it-all tractor’s bucket trying to fix a light pole.  Impressively dangerous, and I probably wasn’t supposed to reveal that to the public (as in Mom).  But Bob and that tractor can do just about anything.

He spends a lot of time teaching his grandsons about everyday stuff.  Kel, Grad, DadAfter seeing the house was still standing (minus a few porch rails) from last week’s early morning storm and Pat had to go to work, the three of them got to work clearing out a Bartlett Pear tree that came down.  (One of our few non-wind bitten trees on this prairie flatland, and it didn’t survive.) 

Our kids are very fortunate.  But he appreciates them too.
So the corn and soybeans are planted.  He’s fretting a bit about my weedy garden.  ("If the weeds are knee high, that’s too high.")  Even as I was inspired by all the weedy garden experts.   Not by choice, but by negligent necessity.  (Mother Earth News will always oblige me.)
Dad and I were both dismayed by the looks of the sweet corn on Thursday morning, but they’ve perked up into good, little soldiers again.  Thank goodness, as I refuse to eat sweet corn from anywhere else.  If you have the best…..

So life is good out here on the farm.  I think that when we got rid of our sheep, cattle and horses, he missed the unexpected and the routine goings on of a livestock farm.  (I’ll continue to believe that, since he’s a good weekend warrior letting chickens in and out and throwing out some corn when we’re gone. )  Dad gets a kick out of my chickens and our doubled flock size from our recent hatched chicks. He even brags to his elevator friends about them, which is a real accomplishment.  (We might have a barter deal with his welder for some of our roosters, since the current adult clan of 7 roosters and 13 hens is a bad match.) 

He’s very healthy, considering the escapades of a couple of years ago during the craziest of times….Harvest Time.  But we are grateful for our everyday Harvest and Reaping Good Fortune.  He’s not feeling so hot today, but there will be a time soon where he can get a Wendy’s Frosty and be very satisfied with a Father’s Day present.  Not too hard to please now, and entertaining to be around.  I’m grateful he’s my dad.


My Dad — 3 Comments

  1. Yeah, if he’s talking about them, as opposed to not saying a word at the elevator, I’m sure he’s definitely bragging about them. Man of few words, and all that.
    We hatched out 28 chicks, in various manners, the last month or so. I think Dad’s astonished, and a bit bemused. ‘Various manners’ being the key term.
    I still have 2 eggs in the incubator that were supposed to hatch last week. I’m not taking them out until they blow up out of 99 degree/65 % humidity….and being absolutely, positively dead. (I accidently opened up 2 living eggs for what I thought were post mortem science experiments and I won’t be doing that again.)

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