Tag: memory

Dad Measured My Backside

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Our farmhouse sat on top of a hill. The yard and driveway sloped gently down to the gravel road that passed our house and connected the community. That hill, and everything on it, shaped my early childhood. 

In the front yard were two trees. One was a tall pear tree, but I only know that because I heard my parents say so. I’m not sure what the other one was. It was broader and had a long limb that someone had hung a porch swing from — the kind that several people could sit in. I liked it and sat in it from time to time, but I couldn’t really swing — my legs were too short. 

Mom and Dad decided I needed a swing of my own, one that was just the right height for my short little legs to reach the ground. 

One sunny afternoon, they announced that today was the day I would get my new swing. I was so excited!

Dad gathered the materials — a rope, a board, a hand saw, and a drill. When he had everything together, he called us outside. I watched as he tossed the ends of the rope over the limb of the pear tree, then secured them in place. 

Next, he told me to turn around and bend over. I didn’t question it — grownups always knew what they were doing — so I did.

“I have to measure you to make sure I cut the board wide enough,” he said. He didn’t use a measuring tape. He just held the board up behind me. 

Mom told me many years later that what I didn’t see was the grin on his face and the wink he gave her when he said it. 

I loved that swing. Since the yard sloped, I felt like I was swinging a lot higher than I actually was because of it. 

The Day Dad Took a Chicken to Lunch

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In the 1950s, Dad had another business besides farming. He ran three milk routes. Back then, farmers filled large metal cans with milk, and Dad hauled them to the creamery where the milk was turned into cheese.

Because there were multiple routes, he employed hired hands. Dad drove one route, the hired men drove the others, and when they were short a driver, Mom filled in — on top of working at the hospital and cooking lunch when she could.

In this particular instance, it was summer and Dad and the men were putting up hay. Mom had to work, so Dad decided to take the hands into town for lunch. When they headed toward Dad’s pickup, they found one of our free-range hens settled comfortably on the muddy running board.


I never knew her real name. In my mind, she will always be Henrietta.

Dad tried to shoo her away. She objected loudly and refused to move.

He laughed, shrugged, and figured she’d hop down once the truck started rolling.

She didn’t.

To his surprise, that hen rode the entire four miles into town, feathers wind-tossed, claws gripping the mud-caked metal like a seasoned traveler who had purchased a non-refundable ticket.

Dad assumed she’d wander off while they ate.

She did not.

When he finally pulled back into our driveway after lunch, there she still sat — dignified, windblown, and entirely unbothered by the journey.

The men laughed. Dad shook his head. Life went on.

And here’s how the story ends:

Dad said that hen refused to climb down until she was good and ready. And when she finally did, he discovered she’d laid an egg right there on her perch.

Which, if you ask me, explains everything.

Some ladies simply do not vacate their seat until their business is complete.

The Peanut Man

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On the days Mom had to work at the hospital, I usually spent the day with Dad. Some of my fondest memories revolve around the times he took me with him to the Sale Barn. 

I don’t know if it had a name, but we always called it the Sale Barn, where farmers came to buy livestock, or brought some of their own to sell. 

There was an arena the animals were brought into for the sale, and there were bleachers where we sat high above the livestock arena. I can still hear the auctioneer’s voice as he worked through the different animals. I never had any idea what he was actually saying, but Dad seemed to know. 

And the smell—I’m sure you can imagine, but I didn’t find it particularly offensive. It just smelled like our barn, a place I loved to play.

But the real draw for me was The Peanut Man. I can’t tell you his name because I’m not sure I ever knew it. I think I may have heard it once or twice in adulthood, but he was, and always will be, The Peanut Man to me.

 He was always there with his peanut cart, dispensing bags of hot peanuts. I always wondered how he kept the peanuts hot. I never asked him, but I’m sure he would have showed me if I had. To this day I have no idea how he kept the peanuts hot. I just know that they always were. 

He was such a kind man, and he always had a smile for me. I really loved him. He was unable to speak, but he didn’t really need to. I gave him the nickel or dime my Dad gave me, and he’d turn and scoop up a brown paper bag full of hot peanuts, give me a huge smile, and hand the bag of peanuts to me. Then I would go back to where Dad was still sitting in the bleachers, and we shared that bag of peanuts. They were the best peanuts I’ve ever eaten.

I don’t know how old he was, just that he was an adult when I was a child. Everyone knew The Peanut Man in my hometown, and many remember him long after he was gone. I will never forget him. 

Ducks

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My Father’s Story

I loved listening to my father tell stories, especially if they were funny. He’d laugh so hard while he was telling them that it took him much longer to tell than it would have otherwise. His laughter was contagious, and we always ended up laughing with him before we heard all of the story. A fair part of the humor in his stories was in watching the way he told them. This was one of those stories. 


One day, two men stopped by my grandfather’s farm, asking for permission to go duck hunting on his property. 

My grandfather, a salty Midwestern farmer with an enormous sense of humor who had lived long enough to see many strange sights in his life, sized them up.

It was obvious to him by the way they looked that they were city slickers — new hunting clothes, guns that didn’t look like they had ever been fired, and boots without a speck of dust on them. They went on to tell him they were in the area from Chicago for duck hunting season. Yep, city slickers, all right.

Tongue in cheek, Grandpa gave them permission, but asked them to stop by and see him before they left so he could see how many they bagged. They were off, and Grandpa could hear occasional gunshots over the course of the day. 

Late that afternoon, they were back. Each held a burlap bag partially filled with their quarry. Grandpa inspected both bags, and handed them back to the city slickers. 

“That’s a really nice bunch of ducks you bagged,” he told them. 

They thanked him again for allowing them to hunt on his property.

“You’re welcome. Come back any time,” he told them as they waved goodbye. 

He sure was glad to get rid of those crows. 

Dad passed away almost 35 years ago, and the last time I heard him tell that story, he was sitting at my kitchen table, laughing so hard it’s a miracle he didn’t fall off his chair. 

I can still hear the laughter, and see his face and him doubled over with it. That is how I will always remember him. 

Born on My Father’s Birthday

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A Quiet Reflection

January 27, 2026

I was born on my father’s birthday. The day was always special. It belonged to us alone. 

I don’t remember our birthdays before I was about five, but I do remember one when I was just about that age. We were at Grandma’s house (his mother), and she had baked a 2-layer birthday cake for us. I was sitting on Dad’s lap as our family sang Happy Birthday to us. My candles were on one side of the cake. Dad’s were on the other. I had several little candles. Dad had just one, bigger than all of mine. 

Most of our birthdays were spent at home. Mom always made us delicious 2-layer cakes, too. Our favorite was German chocolate with coconut icing, both of which she made from scratch. 

Like the birthday I remember at Grandma’s, we always shared a cake, but we each had our own candles. When someone would make a comment about me being Dad’s birthday present, he’d always say, “Some present!” Then he would laugh, his eyes twinkling. I knew he was teasing, of course. 

Later, when I grew up and married, we usually didn’t spend the day together because we lived 50 miles apart. Instead, I always made it a point to call and wish him a happy birthday—until one birthday that I couldn’t. 

It happened in the days before cell phones. We weren’t at home, and I didn’t have easy access to a telephone. I felt bad about it of course. 

My mother told me later how disappointed he was that I hadn’t called. I made sure it never happened again. Some dates stay written on the heart. 

The Green Pickup

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Riding on the Fender

January 22, 2026

Life in the Midwest in the 1950s was slow and easy, or so it seems by today’s comparison. We lived on a farm, and I remember that my Dad had a dark green pickup truck with fender mounted blinkers that had orange glass in them. I  was to learn later the truck was a 1949 Ford. 

One afternoon, Mom, Dad, and I, piled into the truck to make a trip to Nina‘s country store not far from our house.  We were on a mission to buy popsicles.  Dad was a farmer so it wasn’t unusual for us to see him at different times throughout the day.  My brother wasn’t with us so I assume that he was in school.

It started out as any other trip to Nina‘s store, Nina being the proprietor. Mom and Dad conducted their business and we all got popsicles. The question was how to eat them without getting the inside of Dad‘s truck all sticky.

With all the wisdom of any five-year-old, I suggested that we ride on the fender. Obviously it would’ve been more normal had we decided to ride in the back of the truck, but for some reason I wanted to ride on the fender. So that’s what we did. I straddled the blinker and Mom told me to hold on tight which I did. She sat behind me and put her arms around me and we held tight to the blinker together.  

Dad pulled away from the store driving very slowly. I didn’t know how fast he was going then but, in hindsight, I  estimate that it was probably less than five mph. I remember watching the road in front of us and thinking that I could’ve probably run faster than the truck was going. (I couldn’t.)

I don’t know why we did that. I think it’s because I wanted to do it and my parents indulged me. It was a time out of time. People don’t do things like that anymore that I’m aware of. But they used to let us ride in the back of the pickup truck, too, always with admonition to sit down. I seem to remember my mother riding in the back with us to make sure we did.

Tongue on the Pump Handle

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Never Ever

January 18, 2026

“Whatever you do, never ever stick your tongue on a pump handle,” cautioned our hired hand.

It just so happened we had a pump handle between the house and the barn. 

Old hand water pump in winter snow

It was winter.

Ever curious, I thought about it. The next time I went outside, I walked over to the pump. At that tender age, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. So I tested it out. 

And stuck fast.

It instantly became clear why I should never ever stick my tongue on a pump handle. It was so cold, it felt like my tongue was burning. I was outside alone, so there was no one to help me. Wanting to get away from it, I jerked my head back—and took a layer of skin off my tongue. 

That hurt almost as bad as it did while my tongue was still stuck on the pump handle, and it continued to hurt for several days afterward. 

My mother had words for the hired hand.

When My Brother Ran For Help

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January 14, 2026

Lying in the middle of the road with the sun in my face and gravel poking me everywhere was secondary to the pain in my foot, twisted and caught between the spokes of my brother’s bike.

I looked to make sure no cars were coming, though there wasn’t much I could have done about it anyway. I couldn’t get up. The bike had me trapped. I was scared I would be run over.

I listened for the sound of cars but heard nothing and was only slightly reassured that I would probably see a plume of dust before I actually heard one. The blind hill about 200 feet in front of me was worrisome, because cars usually came up over it pretty fast.

Just before that, my brother Monty, had been giving me a ride on his new bike. He told me to hold my feet out and away from the spokes so they wouldn’t get caught. I listened, and I did try—but accidents happen anyway.

Watching him run away from me toward the house scared me, too. I knew he was going to get Mom, but I felt so alone. It seemed like I had been lying there a long time, but it probably wasn’t more than five minutes, since we weren’t far from the house.

Finally, I saw Mom and Monty hurrying down the driveway toward me. I was so glad to see them. Mom gently removed my foot from between the spokes and carried me back to the house, where she examined my foot and determined that no bones were broken.

Looking back, it’s clear to me that even then, my brother had my best interests at heart.

The Pink Wall

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January 8, 2026

I remember standing in my crib, holding on to the side rail, quietly looking at the wall across from my crib, comparing it to the white woodwork in the doorway to my room. I was fascinated by the color. 


I thought about that wall often, in brief flashes. For years, I didn’t know where we had lived then. I only knew that I was very little. One day when I was about 30 years old, I happened to think of it while my mother was visiting. I asked her where we had lived where the wall in my room was a deep pink with white woodwork.

A little shocked, she replied, “You couldn’t possibly remember that. You were only 10 months old.” 

She paused, then added, “It wasn’t supposed to be that dark.”

Except, I do remember. Many decades later, I can still see that wall in my mind’s eye. And I still have the feeling of being tiny. Why it made such an impression on me I can’t say. But pink always has been—and still is—my favorite color.