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Barn Shoes

Barn Shoes

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For the first time since her dad passed away last October, Kim and I stayed on the farm this past weekend.

I remember the first time I went up to the farm.  I had driven up the Pennsylvania Turnpike to the city of Somerset to surprise Kim and run in a 10 K race that was sponsored by the local newspaper, the Daily American. Though still kind of early in our relationship I think we originally had plans to make this trip together that got messed up somehow. And after some regret, I got directions from a guy I worked with who used to frequent Seven Springs Ski Resort, and off I went.

The race start and finish were at the Somerset High School football field.   I got a hotel room just off the Turnpike exit for Somerset, went over to the Daily American office to register, then I had dinner at the Pizza Hut.  The next day I rolled on up to the race and surprised Kim as she was walking up to the field with other members of her family and Donny and Savannah.

Out of 270 runners, Kim’s brother Kerry finished 32nd, her sister Kate 136th, and Kim finished 151st.  Donny and I ran together and he finished 199th and I crossed the finish line as the 200th runner.  Of course, Donny beat me as he always did. Our times with 1:02:08 and 1:02:09 respectively.   Donny was eleven at the time.

After the race, Kim brought me back to the farm to meet her parents. Kim’s family owned a fairly large dairy farm in the village of Kingwood which is about twenty miles southwest of the city of Somerset on the Laurel Highlands.  At the time her parents lived in the farmhouse directly across from the barn where they kept the dairy cows and where the milking parlor was located.  A couple of years later they would build the house we stayed in this past weekend on another part of the farm adjacent to the house where Royal, Kim’s father, was born in and on land his father had farmed.

 

I don’t know whether it was me surprising her at that race that sealed the deal or just being my charming good looking self but as a result, I would go on to take many more trips up to the farm after that because of course we got married and I now had lots of in-laws.  I learned how to milk cows, fed pigs, and rode in a combine.

 

If you are like me and grew up near the ocean in New Jersey, you might not know that the black and white dairy cows are called Holsteins.

On one of those visits, I came around the corner of the barn to find out it was Holstein toenail trimming day.  There, working behind the barn were Kim’s brothers Keith and Kerry, the veterinarian, and a cow.  The vet had this hydraulic table on the back of his truck that would come out and stand upright next to the cow.  Then the cow was secured to the table while standing there on her four legs. Once secured, the table thing would lift up and flip sideways.  Now with the cow laying down on its side and its legs sticking out, the vet busted out a circular saw proceeded to zing off the unwanted part of the cow hooves.  Once the trimming was done, Kim’s brother pulled out a hypodermic needle the size of a turkey baster and injected some antibiotics into the pads of the hooves to keep the cow from getting an infection.  Once all that was done, the cow was flipped back right side up again and unattached and back in the barn she went.

It was an experience I will never forget, but it made me appreciate toenail clippers much more.

 

As you might expect with cows, and manure pits, and muddy fields and such, trips up to the farm and especially the barn were hard on my Northern Virginia shoes and boots.  So early on I got smart and went out to some discount shoe store in Somerset (maybe Walmart) and bought the cheapest pair of shoes I could find and deemed them forever to be my “barn shoes.” They were kind of funny looking but I didn’t care, they were just barn shoes. They would live in one of the cabinets in the garage and be there whenever I needed to make the trip to the barn.

Over the years the cows got sold and the dairy farm got converted to crop farming.  Without the cows, my barn shoes got a little less important, and spent more time in the cabinet, though I think I did wear them once last October to feed the pigs.

This weekend I decided to bring my barn shoes home.  With Kim’s dad gone and her mom now living up in Davidsville, closer to Johnstown, in a nice assisted living, I probably won’t be spending too much time at the barn.

 

I will keep them though.

Just in case the manure ever gets a little too deep around here.

And as a nice reminder of past times together with Kim’s family up on the mountain.

I don’t who any of these folks are but this is at the beginning of the race at Somerset High School.
Meet the Holsteins! Donny and I meeting with cows. Donny holding a barn cat.
Me showing my future mother-in-law how to cook in the kitchen of the old farmhouse. That is Kim’s sister Kate to the left
That was my vehicle at the time parked near the area of the barn with the milking parlor. The farmhouse is to the left of my vehicle.
The Holiday Chronicles: Thanksgiving

The Holiday Chronicles: Thanksgiving

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Some traditional Thanksgiving images at a country store in Springs, PA.

“That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

It’s Thanksgiving week.

Monday, November 19 as I began to make some notes, was the day Abraham Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address, one hundred and fifty five years ago. The day Lincoln said “The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here.”

Lincoln got a lot of things right, but that wasn’t one of them.

And what about Thanksgiving?

I watched a TV drama on Tuesday, it was their Thanksgiving episode.   One of the characters expressed his struggle to get through the Thanksgiving holiday each year.  I have heard that before, sometimes from people very close to me. It is true, not everyone has those warm fuzzy feelings at Thanksgiving.

 

When I was a kid we made Pilgrim hats, turkeys, and Native American Indian headdresses out of colored paper. Then we draped the classroom with chains made out of paper rings of brown, orange, and red.

Our characterization of Thanksgiving is attributed to a description in a letter by a Plymouth, Massachusetts settler named Edward Winslow in 1621.  More words that established a legacy.

But some argue that the actual first Thanksgiving occurred 60 years before that in Florida when the Spanish fleet came ashore and planted a cross in the sand.  They gave thanks for God’s providence and celebrated their safe arrival with a feast with the Native Americans they encountered.

Someone I love dearly said recently wouldn’t it be nice if you could pick your own Thanksgiving Day?  Celebrate and give thanks on a day when you or your family had something special to be thankful for.

Maybe there is something to that.

You pick your own day to plant your cross in the sand.

 

And it’s not just those emotional struggles.

Because look what we have done.

Like so many other things we have screwed up.

Thanksgiving is now all about TV deals at Walmart.

Colored paper and pilgrim hats replaced with colored ad circulars, coupons, and doorbusters.

Since now on the day after Halloween stores seem to go right to Christmas, someday Thanksgiving may just be part of the fifty shades of Black Friday.

“The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here” said Lincoln of his words to help dedicate a cemetery at Gettysburg.

Someday as it pertains to the traditions of our Thanksgiving, the world may little note nor remember …what we do here.

 

Now as this Thanksgiving week comes to a close, whatever challenges we may have worried about are behind us.  Having spent my Thanksgiving in the farmlands of western Pennsylvania, it somehow felt more Thanksgiving like, more traditional. And the only real struggle I had was not reaching for the turkey since for me it was my first self-imposed pescatarian Thanksgiving.

And I hope yours was exactly how you wanted it to be, your cross in the sand, like you picked it yourself, without any struggles.

One to be thankful for.

Near Meyersdale, PA
Hope

Hope

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My brother-in-law Kerry driving the combine with me riding shotgun
My brother-in-law Kerry driving the combine with me riding shotgun

The heavy iron ladder is swung out and locked into place allowing me to climb up to the cab of this odd shaped monster of a vehicle.  Like something out of a Mad Max movie, the behemoth is now in motion and the pointed jaws lowered into position lining up with the rows of corn in the field.

It’s the harvest.

The race to bring in the crops has begun.  That race to beat the winter weather that can, at the very least complicate and delay the process or in the worst case, damage the crops that have been worked so hard since the spring.

On this day only 91 acres of corn and 65 acres of beans (soybeans) remain.  The soybeans are more fragile and are the more urgent concern.  If the snow comes early (and in the Laurel Highlands of western Pennsylvania early could be any day now since in my experience, it has been very common to have snow on the ground by Thanksgiving) it could pose a problem.

View of the front of the combine as we approach the end of the row.
View of the front of the combine as we approach the end of the row.

But this morning, though the weather is beautiful, the soybean storage bin is full.  The truck that will pick up a load of beans and create more space in the storage bin, has just exited the Pennsylvania Turnpike and is on its way now from Somerset.

So in the meantime, the focus is on the corn.

The “behemoth” is the combine.  This morning I am riding shotgun with my brother-in-law Kerry and getting an education.  I never experienced anything like this growing up on the Jersey shore.

The combine will take the ear of corn off the stalk, remove and save the corn kernels,  then spit out the now naked cob and husk. The corn kernels are then transferred to a large “dump truck” like vehicle and moved to the grain dryer where the remaining moisture is removed; then stored until sold, transferred, and transported to the buyer’s facility for use as feed.

It’s hard work, requiring long days, but in the words of my brother-in-law Kerry, he’s “loving every minute of it.”

My other brother-in-law Keith has been manning the grain dryer since 6 AM this morning.

They are working the same land their father worked and his father before him.

 

Unloading the corn into the truck to take to the dryer
Unloading the corn into the truck to take to the dryer

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am in western Pennsylvania again.  At the Geiger Church of the Brethren on Sunday, the message was about hope and service was opened with us singing America the Beautiful.

O Beautiful for Patriot dream

That sees beyond the years

Thine alabaster cities gleam,

Undimmed by human tears!

America! America! God shed its grace on thee,

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea!

 

Hope.

People without hope are people without a future, the message said.

I thought about that and the song we had just sung.

Hope…in dreams that see beyond the years.

Hope…undimmed by human tears.

 

I haven’t worked since the middle of August, other than writing and occasionally substitute teaching.

I am learning what it is to be sixty years old searching for a new career.  I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.  I can’t commit to that vacation or plan for that retirement date.  I am experiencing change once again in my life.

So does that mean I am a person without hope?  And therefore, a person without a future?

Absolutely not!

It is true there is some uncertainty in my future for sure.  But that does not mean I am without hope.

God has not revealed what is in store for me.  But I expect when He does, it will be bigger than I can imagine.  I expect my future will be my reward for everything I worked hard for in my life to get to this point.

And what if I am living my reward already?

What if being able to work with elementary and high school students, the future leaders of this country; is part of my reward.

What if having the opportunity to climb into the cab of a combine and harvest corn that will help feed this great country of ours is part of the plan for me also.

And surely being able to express myself when I want, any way I want, through words and these musings is a reward I also cherish.

And regardless of what happens today and what changes we will wake up to tomorrow in our country, my brother-in-law Keith will still be at the grain dryer at 6 am; Kerry will be in the cab of that combine, and along with millions of others,  whatever it takes to  keep this country moving will continue.  And at least I can say,  my brothers-in law will still be enjoying every minute of it.

America will still be Beautiful.

Our dreams will continue undimmed by change, tragedy, conflict, and those tears that may be shed as a result.

Brotherhood must and will continue from sea to sea.

And we will still have hope in a future that like my own, may seem a little uncertain today.

Because, like the song says, God shed its grace on thee.

And I too will enjoy every minute of it.

 

I voted!
I voted!

 

Reminders

Reminders

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20160911_160041_001“IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SEPTEMBER MORNING WITH A BLUE SKY…JUST A NORMAL DAY.”

Joy Knepp, Teacher, Shanksville –Stoneycreek School from the display at the Flight 93 Memorial Visitor Center

On an early New England morning in 1775, on the common green in Lexington Massachusetts, a small group of patriots prepared to square off against a large invading British force of about 700 troops. Moments later a shot was fired, and the first battle of the war to establish our nation’s freedom had begun.

Two hundred and twenty six years later, on “a beautiful September morning with a blue sky…just a normal day” over the green mountains and hills of western Pennsylvania, another small group of brave Patriots waged the first battle of a new war to protect those freedoms fought so hard for many years ago.

“…a beautiful September morning with a blue sky…”

Much like today I thought,  as I left the Flight 93 Visitor Center and began the walk down the tree lined path to the impact site below.   Though the morning was cool, the now mid to late afternoon sun caused me to remove my Harley Davidson of Somerset PA sweatshirt and tie it around my waist.  Kim did the same with her Steelers sweatshirt.  The occasional large dark cloud loomed almost symbolically right over the Flight 93 Memorial Visitor Center, so low it looked like you could almost reach up and touch it.  I guess something in the sky had to be there to remind us of the darkness of that day, joining the reminders on the grounds around me.  Though it was a beautiful day, this day, September 11th would never again be just a normal one.

 

Needing to decompress a little, Kim and I decided to make a trip up to see the family on the farm in Markleton, Pennsylvania in Somerset County. It was a weekend of reminders.

I got my first reminder on Friday while still at home. I got an email via my website from Jimmy P. McLaughlin.  I stared at that email for long time before realizing that this Jimmy was a Jimmy P, so I opened it up.  Jimmy it turns out is a blogger who stumbled upon my website and sent me the following message:

I just discovered this–thanks for introducing me to a kindred spirit… see my blog at stateoflubbock.blogspot.com. Thanks, Jimmy P. McLaughlin  

Thanks Jimmy for helping me to remember your kindred spirit, another patriot, on this day.

By early Saturday morning we were in Western Pennsylvania. I have been to Somerset County many times over the last almost 20 years and thought I was fairly well versed in the farm community life and history.  I got my eyes opened on Saturday by attending the New Centerville Volunteer Fire Company Farmer’s and Threshermens Jubilee.  Another reminder for me, this time of the hard work and sacrifice it took our forefathers to build and feed this great country of ours.

Sunday was church at the Geiger Church of the Brethren. The Sunday school message that morning was about death; how do we prepare? Are we ready?  What in our lives can complicate that preparation? And another reminder…we don’t always get the opportunity to prepare.

After church we had lunch with Kim’s parents at the Eat’n Park Restaurant in Somerset and decided we would just jump on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to go home. As I was waiting to leave the manager at the Eat’n Park asked if I had come from the Flight 93 Memorial.  I explained we were here visiting family. The restaurant is next to the Harley-Davidson of Somerset motorcycle shop.  I told her about the photo my sister had sent me a few weeks earlier of that same spot as she and my brother-in-law participated in the 2016 America’s 9/11 Motorcycle Ride.

“Oh yeah” she said, “the motorcycles.” She then expressed her disappointment that this year’s ride was to be the last.

“They donated an ambulance you know.”

Now in the truck ready to go home, the idea of visiting the Flight 93 Memorial on this day in particular seemed like the appropriate thing to do. I had never been there.  We were directed to park in an overflow parking lot since the visitors were many and walked the paths up to the Memorial Visitor Center.  All around the grounds you could see what remained of the ceremonies that took place that morning or the evening before; the wreaths, the tents, the temporary bleachers, and stacks of chairs.

We waited in line almost an hour to enter the Visitor Center. Once inside it didn’t take long to be transported back to that day with a rush of emotion.  I lifted the “phone” receiver and listened to their voices, those final calls and goodbyes; I viewed their names and faces on the wall and read the stories as the video of the World Trade Center attacks played over and over.  Everyone was quiet and solemn.

We walked down to the site of the impact. The large hemlock gate to the path where the boulder marks the impact site was open today. Only open once a year on this day according to the Park Ranger stationed at the gate.

We stood at The Wall of Names where fresh wreaths, flowers, and notes lay at the base of each stone panel honoring those that perished.

“Thank you for your sacrifice, God Bless You” read one note.

“Your sacrifice saved hundreds, Thank You!” read another.

I read the names again. The names of those patriots, who maybe with make-shift weapons of boiling water, a fire extinguisher, and who knows what else; made the ultimate sacrifice in what was the first battle of the new war threatening our freedoms.

They left their homes and their loved ones and boarded a jet not knowing how complicated their lives would be in a short while. How complicated their deaths would be.  They soon knew they were going to die; they had no time to prepare.

But they acted.

And they acted on our behalf.

And I was reminded once more.

And I will remember.

We should all remember.

 

“Are you guys ready? Let’s roll.” (Flight 93 passenger and patriot Todd Beamer)

Items left for flight attendant Sandy Bradshaw at the Wall of Names
Items left for flight attendant Sandy Bradshaw at the Wall of Names

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