I still have my old 1966 Chevrolet truck, the one that’s been with me through so much of this long life. Just about every week, you could find me and our loyal dog Gunner riding down the gravel roads, heading off to haul grain to the Cargill elevator. That truck’s hauled more loads than I could ever count, but it’s carried even

more memories.

I was born on this very farm, raised here among rows of corn and fields of wheat, learning to mend fences and drive tractors before I could even write my own name. This land was my whole world — until the world came calling. I was drafted off the farm and served two years in the Korean War, a long way from home and the gentle hush of these Kansas fields.

When I came back, I married a farmer’s daughter — a good, kind woman who understood the call of the soil just like I did. Together we raised two strong daughters here, teaching them to love this land and its seasons. I farmed this ground with my own hands, just like my father before me, and when he passed it down to me seventy years ago, I promised to keep it alive. I have done my best to honor that promise.

Life’s had its share of heartache. My wife and our youngest daughter both passed away right here on this farm. Some days the house feels mighty empty without them. But Gunner keeps me company, and I still get up each morning, pull on my boots, and walk these fields.

Now I’m 92 years old. I still live on this farm, the same one that’s cradled my whole life’s story — from my first breath to, I reckon, my last. This land has been my birthplace, my work, my heartache, and my joy. And when my time comes, I’ll rest here too, under the same wide sky I’ve watched all these years.