This Farmer’s Daughter Misses Her Dad

The Farmer’s Daughter

My dad was a farmer and so were both my grandfathers. I was born and raised in a community full of folks who work hard to help feed America. Two of our sons are grain farmers and another helps his dad with our blueberry farm and future agri-tourism business. They are keeping their ancestor’s legacy alive.

Recently, this farmer’s daughter and her husband took a trip to Missouri and as I watched the fields of cotton, soybeans and rice go by I found myself missing my dad and days later my heart is still heavy with memories. I talk about my mother frequently here on my blog because we were exceptionally close. While my dad and I weren’t as close, I loved him very much and I wish our relationship had been different. I wanted to know him better but for a lot of reasons, that never happened.

Remembering Dad

I choose to remember the things I loved about him. His piercing blue eyes and the way his nose wrinkled when he laughed. The fact that he always drove a red Ford truck. His love of family, UK basketball and his faith. His respect and kindness for his mother-in-law, my Grandma Layne, he adored her. His love of sweets. “What’s behind the door, Shirley?” he’d ask my mom. Translated that means, “What’s for dessert?”

One of my husband’s favorite memories of my dad was when one Sunday mom had made a banana pudding, which was one of his favorites. We all passed it around and scooped out some on our dessert plates. Dad looked around and asked if everyone had gotten some. We thought he was trying to see if anyone had been over looked. When we assured him everyone had some he took the pie and his fork and proceeded to eat the rest of the pudding himself!

Besides farming, dad sold farm equipment and an assortment of other things over the years. He loved making deals. Nothing made him happier than buying something at one price and re-selling it at a profit. His talent for doing that went a long way toward supporting us during lean years when crops weren’t good.

One year he had an exceptionally good tobacco crop. He came home from work and insisted we all get in the truck and go with him to see how big and healthy looking the plants were. Mom made a picture of my little brother and me standing in front of plants that towered over us. I remember him saying something like he wanted to remember that crop because he might not ever have another one that looked that good.

That’s the thing about farming. You never know if you are going to have a good year or bad year because there is too much about raising a crop that is out of your control. Too much rain and your fields flood. Too little rain and your plants die. Then there are insects and deer to contend with. If you get a good crop there’s still the chance that prices will go down and you won’t be able to even cover the cost of the seed. Some think being a farmer is like being a gambler, but others call it a way of life.

My mother was a teacher but she loved growing a garden. One evening after she was diagnosed with terminal cancer I walked out with her to the garden and we sat down on the grass as the sun melted into the horizon behind the rows of corn.

“There’s just something special about watching things grow,” she said.

Farmers get that.

Dad was a humble man who didn’t have a college degree but he made a good life for himself and his family because he loved us and loved to work. But his heart, the one that eventually betrayed him and took him from us, belonged to the land.

I Don’t Know Why

Maybe because it’s harvest time in Kentucky. Maybe it’s because I saw two of my sons in a swirl of dust harvesting soybeans. Maybe it’s because there’s a little girl deep down inside me who misses her parents love and support. I’m not sure why it is, but I miss him.

I looked up at the blue sky and whispered a prayer. “I miss you, Dad. You would be so proud of all your grandchildren. I see bits and pieces of you and mom in each of them, and one more thing. I am now, and have always been proud to be a farmer’s daughter.”