Not long ago, I had a chat with a wise old fellow, who said he watched so many wide, open farms disappear in to buildings and driveways and parking lots over his lifetime.
When I was a toddler, my maternal grandfather decided his four little granddaughters needed the experience of bottle feeding a lamb.
Childhood television shows and values have all changed — significantly.
Johnny, who so easily could have turned a blind eye to this wounded soul, instead determined he would take the freshman under his wing.
The year in the life of a farmer has always felt a bit like the hard climb to a summit, alone, without the benefit of a team of cohorts helping with the challenging ascent.
From square dancing to singing, Christmas was a time for tradition.
One of my happiest holiday memories is now fading for me, but it is still there in an old movie-reel, lovely sort of way.
There is no venue more inviting for a gaggle of girls than a big old farm with a constantly changing cast of characters.
With the re-setting of the clocks to standard time comes a darkness that plays right in to the hand of the changing calendar.
While many in the 1950s and ‘60s were drawn to take a turn as a wild west cowboy, many of my memories involve ‘playing house,’ my older sisters telling me what to do and say.