Throughout most of my high school years, my mother enjoyed a long-distance friendship with a writer who was often called “the country Erma Bombeck” for her great accounts of life on the farm.
Patricia Leimbach lived two counties north of us in Ohio, enjoyed farming with her husband and achieved success writing an award-winning column for The Chronicle Telegram in Elyria. My mom searched out her columns, long before the author became famous. My mother would read a quip to us from clippings she found particularly humorous and relatable.
Always resourceful, my mother reached out through contacts in the agricultural realm to obtain the mailing address of Paul and Pat Leimbach and sent a card and note to the writer. A card quickly came in return, a happy-hearted, handwritten letter from Pat to my mother. This began a long friendship.
The letters my mother wrote were surely filled with news of our dairy farm, challenging weather as it applied to the crops and the financial challenges that were often part of a season on a big farm. Pat wrote of the distinct difference of their farm life, producing potatoes, vegetables and grain.
But as the years rolled on, the two women shared a true friendship that was deeper than simply shared circumstances and hard work. My mom was a great letter writer and enjoyed it thoroughly.
Over the years, she had often lamented how long she waited for a letter in return from a friend or a relative after writing newsy accounts of our life. Once in a while, she would receive a card, simply signed with a brief note, saying how much this person had enjoyed Mom’s letter. “Why bother?” I often heard my mother say.
A card with only a signature was a waste of a good stamp. Mom wanted more depth. What in this person’s life made for happy moments, and how did this person approach life’s challenges?
“A signature tells absolutely nothing!” she would say.
In Patricia Leimbach, Mom found her true kin. I clearly recall one dreary winter day when I carried the mail from the mailbox into the kitchen.
“Mom, you got a heavy envelope from Mrs. Leimbach! It even needed two stamps!” I said.
Mom lit up like it was Christmas, setting aside her potato peeler, drying her hands quickly and carefully opening that nicely fattened envelope.
Mom shared bits and pieces of that long letter with us over the coming days, the stories so relatable that we shared our mother’s excitement and laughter.
“She insists I call her Pat, and considers our friendship a lasting one,” Mom said.
They connected through the hard work of farm women who were also raising children, trying hard to balance it all. Their love of writing bonded two ladies who had never met.
It was during my senior year that Mom learned of a public book signing when Mrs. Leimbach released “All My Meadows” which was subtitled “A harvest of country wisdom.”
This was Leimbach’s second book, and Mom had practically memorized her first, “A Thread of Blue Denim.”
Dad insisted they were going to get to the event, come hell or high water.
I still recall the hushed excitement as they got ready, dressed in their finest, leaving me in charge of the evening milking and chores so they could get a good start, driving about an hour north to this event.
Mom came home with the green and cream-colored book, and stars of joy in her eyes.
“It was so wonderful to finally meet, and Pat was so surprised to see me … it just couldn’t have been one bit better!”
Of this book, Publishers Weekly wrote, “For anybody who loves the country, here is a gem.” We were most definitely among a legion of fans.
