An Introduction to Our Cherished Farmer: Our Daddy

My brother and I always thought of our dad as the heart of our family farm. From sunup to sundown, his

A proud farmer stands in a lush, green field, showcasing the joy of hard work and the rewards of nature. Our Daddy loved farming.

hands worked the land and cared for the livestock with steady determination and quiet strength. He had a way of making hard work look almost effortless, always knowing just what the soil, the crops, and the equipment needed. But beyond his skill as a farmer, he was kind, patient, and enjoyed having fun with our family. Whether he was repairing a tractor, checking the irrigation well, or simply taking a moment to enjoy a cold, tall cup of iced tea, he always made time for us. This is the story of some of the special moments I shared with him, growing up on our farm.

On our farm, each day was a blend of routine and unexpected moments. Mornings began with a hearty breakfast that filled us with energy for the essential tasks ahead. Breakfast was a time to discuss the day's business. As we left the table, everyone knew their assigned tasks. My brother was a vital partner to my dad and his farm work. Gary is thirteen years my senior, so he was quite familiar with the tasks of the farm even before I was born. As for my plans for the farm day, that would be either playing with my Chatty Cathy doll, making mud pies, or running errands with Mother.  

Lunch was usually shared around the table unless it was a busy season; then, Mom and I might take a picnic out to the field. Premade food wasn't affordable, and fast food was unheard of. Honestly, in the 1950s and 60s, I don’t think it was even available. Surely not in a rural area where we lived. I remember my mother always having lunch prepared for our family. Daddy often bragged about Mother’s cooking skills and her shelves of canned food down in our storm cellar. Farming requires constant manual labor, so healthy meals were essential.

In the afternoons, Mother and I would prepare a large container of cold iced tea and take it out to the field. We’d sit in the car on the turn row, waiting for Daddy to reach the end. When he stopped the tractor and climbed down, we handed him the tea in his favorite aluminum drinking cup. He would then take a few moments to rest and enjoy the cool refreshment before returning to his work. Those brief breaks felt special, simple moments of love and support amidst long, hot days. I remember my daddy showing love to my mother for her support and encouragement. She showed me how to be a devoted wife and appreciate the hard work of her husband, who was our family provider. Mother didn’t work outside the home in those days. She wanted to be there for Daddy, my brother, and me. That was true of most of my friends' families as well. Most farm families lived off the annual payout from their harvest. It was a family endeavor. I think that is my favorite memory of living on a working farm. Of course, the weather and the commodity prices determined the size of that annual paycheck. Some years were leaner than others.

Once the seeds were planted, the long summer months were spent irrigating the crops and tending to the land. Whether it was cotton, sorghum, wheat, or soybeans, every field needed close attention. Daddy handled the cultivation since special care had to be taken to prevent disrupting the growth of the precious little plants. In those days, the farming practice was to turn the ground every 10 days.  My brother, Gary, was typically assigned the task of irrigation. On the occasion that my Daddy went out to "set pipe," I often

had the opportunity to go with him.  While he moved the irrigation pipe to a new set of rows, he let me swim in the irrigation ditch.

At five or six years old, the water seemed deep, like a swimming pool. Even though it was only a dirt ditch, the water stayed surprisingly clear and refreshingly cool, fed directly from the ground by a motorized well. My dad and my brother had to check the well regularly to ensure the oil and coolant levels were adequate. The drip oil lubricated the pump bearings deep down in the well. These details were retold to me by my older brother, Gary. The best memory I have is of the loud motor and the smell of the exhaust. Our farm wells were powered by an Oldsmobile V-8 engine fueled by an underground natural gas line. I remember the cool, clear water that seemed extra tasty when drunk from the cup made out of an old can with bailing wire for a handle. That “family” cup was always hanging near the well so a hard-working farmer or his son could take a cool water break.

As the long, hot summer gave way to fall, harvest season arrived, a time of both excitement and hard work. The fields, once filled with tiny green sprouts, now stood tall and complete, ready to yield their bounty. My dad would drive the tractor, carefully steering it through the rows as the fluffy cotton was machine-picked and transported into a cotton trailer attached to the back of the stripper; a little two-car train of sorts. As the load of cotton was dumped into the trailer, someone would be “tromping” it down to create the most room for more cotton. Just like a bag of fall leaves from your yard, the trailer needed to hold as much cotton as possible before making the trip to the gin. Taking a load to the gin slowed the harvesting process and also required the parking of the trailer until it could be emptied. Our farm was small, so every trailer we had was valuable for moving harvested cotton to the gin. Mom and I often rode with Daddy to take the cotton to the gin. This little ride provided an opportunity for conversation during a busy harvest season. Cotton was, and is, a significant crop in the Panhandle of Texas.

One memorable day, after the sorghum had come up and the heads were full, I rode on the tractor with my Daddy. I felt safe sitting on his lap in that open-air tractor with its yellow cushioned seat. We didn’t talk much as the roar of the engine made conversation difficult. As daddies are prone to do, he wasn’t paying much attention as I began sneezing and rubbing my eyes. By the time we got home, my eyes were nearly swollen shut. My mother was not happy with his lack of concern, and my dad felt terrible for not noticing sooner. A cool compress and a cozy night’s sleep worked wonders for me, and my dad was back in everyone's good graces for taking care of Mama’s baby girl!

There were many special days in our little farm kitchen. We had such wonderful times celebrating birthdays and other occasions! My mom often made a delicious cake, and occasionally we’d make homemade ice cream using a churn freezer. My brother, especially, loved Carrot Cake, and I fondly remember it being the star of his birthday celebration. Mom would carefully prepare the custard for the ice cream right on the

Vstove with milk, cream, eggs, and a dash of vanilla. Then, she’d pour the lovely vanilla custard into the long metal cylinder. Dad would pop the cylinder into the wooden freezer bucket, attach the hand crank, and fill it all up with ice and rock salt. It was my special job to sit on top of the freezer while Dad cranked the handle. Mom made a soft, thick pad out of towels for me to sit on, making it quite cozy! We churned the ice cream outside so the ice and salt didn’t create a mess in the kitchen. Though it felt like we churned forever, the payoff was completely worth it.

Before he was a farmer, Daddy served his country as an Army soldier in World War II. Like many men of his generation, he didn’t often talk openly about his experiences, but as he worked alongside my older brother in the fields, he would sometimes share bits and pieces of his stories. Those quiet conversations between father and son became treasured glimpses into a part of his life that shaped the man he became. One day, I hope to share more of those stories in a blog post, preserving his experiences for future generations.

I was only allotted six precious years with my daddy. In the fall of my first-grade year, God called him home to heaven, and our time together on the farm came to an end far too soon. That loss shaped my life in many

ways, and one day I will share more of that part of our family story. But for now, I want you to get to know the man he was: a hard-working farmer, a loving husband and father, a Christian, and a faithful veteran. His

memory lives on in the stories, lessons, and simple moments we shared during our time together. My mother is with him now in the home that God has prepared for them. I look forward to the day when I will be able to walk and talk with him. There are so many milestones in my growing-up years that I want to share with him.

The Bible tells us that God is preparing a place for those who accept his gift of salvation. "There is more than enough room in my Father's home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am." John 14:2-3 NLT

Recipe: Nostalgic Vanilla Bean Custard Homemade Ice Cream

Yields 4 1/2 cups of Custard

Below is a recipe for old-fashioned homemade vanilla bean ice cream. Making ice cream at home is not just about the end product; it’s about the experience. Here are a couple of reasons why homemade custard ice cream holds a special place in our hearts:

• Family Experience: The laughter, the teamwork, and the memories created while cranking that ice cream freezer together.

• Pure Ingredients: Unlike store-bought varieties like our own Texas-made Blue Bell, this recipe avoids additives such as guar gum, high-fructose corn syrup, cellulose gum, carrageenan gum, and annatto color. It’s just pure, creamy goodness.

So, gather your family, dust off that old hand-crank ice cream maker, or invest in a new one, and let’s create some sweet memories together with this delightful custard ice cream recipe!

Ingredients

• 2 cups heavy whipping cream

• 2 cups whole milk

• 3/4 cup sugar

• 1/8 teaspoon salt

• 1 vanilla bean (or 2 tsp of vanilla extract)

• 6 large eggs

1. In a large, heavy saucepan, combine cream, milk, sugar, and salt; split vanilla bean in half lengthwise. With a sharp knife, scrape seeds into a saucepan; add bean. Heat the cream mixture over medium heat until bubbles form around the sides of the saucepan, stirring to dissolve the sugar.

2. In a bowl, whisk a small amount of the hot mixture into the egg yolks; return all to the pan, whisking constantly. Cook over low heat until the mixture is just thick enough to coat a metal spoon and the temperature reaches 180°F, stirring continuously. Do not allow to boil. Immediately transfer the mixture to a bowl. Note: a kitchen thermometer is very handy for many things

3. Place the bowl in a pan of ice water. Stir gently and occasionally for 2 minutes; discard vanilla bean. Press waxed paper onto the surface of the mixture; refrigerate for several hours or overnight.

4. Fill the cylinder of the ice cream maker two-thirds full; freeze according to the manufacturer's directions. Transfer ice cream to a freezer container; freeze until firm, 4-6 hours.