“The blooming Spring is the smile of the ever-joyful nature.”
— Debasish Mridha
I remember a nicely sloping hill from childhood that was among the first places to grow lush green grass on our farm each spring. It caught the sunrise each morning and was thick with cover. My sisters and I would lie down at the top of that slope and roll our way to the bottom with giggles, our joyful hearts letting go of a long winter. It was an act of wild and silly abandon that felt gloriously perfect in the moment.
The cycles of farm life live by a different calendar than the rest of the world. Spring is the beginning of the new year, ever hopeful and filled with a life of its own. I will forever picture my father in this season, a skip in his step as he worked through daily lists and gathered essentials for a new growing season. He was filled with enthusiasm and the undying hope that this year would be even better than last. He may have held some anxiety about it, as well, but if he did, it was never visible to us.
My mother, in her later years, told me she had never trusted anyone as fully as she did my father. Though he was only 19 when they married, he had the wisdom and maturity of an old soul.
“We had not a thing to our names, but in short order, we were making good money. He invested money only on items which helped us grow our farm. He had a plan that stretched across years I could not even envision. And you know what? I knew he would make it happen. I never doubted he would be successful, because he had the determination to make it so.”
Some of Dad’s plans included helping neighbors, and while doing so with true kindness, he also let these neighbors see his genuine character. He opened a door to friendship, and he learned from their well-earned wisdom in the process. He asked good questions, and his memory held those answers.
It was a chilly spring day when next door neighbors Roger and Rose Marie McClure came to my parents with a proposition that would change the trajectory of their lives. A doctor had just advised Roger his lungs were failing, and a move to the southwestern part of the U.S. might add years to his life. Continuing to milk a herd of Holsteins in Jeromesville, Ohio, would surely shorten it.
The couple had no children, and they had grown to enjoy my parents and their four little girls as family. The offer was made to rent their dairy farm, complete with some of the richest top-soil laden acreage around. A handshake sealed the offer that was made that day, all of this coming to my young parents, in their early 30s, from out of the blue.
Next week: the future takes shape
