Milky Way Farm was my father. Dad was a strongly built, clean-cut, muscular man, the quintessential Vermont farmer. His walk was like no one else’s. I could always pick him out in a crowd because he carried himself with a purpose, in a ground-covering gait that appeared deceptively relaxed. He had the strongest hands I have ever seen or held. Real man’s hands. He never lost his farmer’s tan.
Despite possessing all the attributes of the most masculine man, Dad had all the heart of the gentlest person. He saw the world through clear blue eyes that unfailingly managed to discover the wondrous in the ordinary. He wanted us to share his insights, most particularly his love of wildlife.
Dad declared that time spent with family, friends or a neighbor’s was never wasted time. No wonder I can’t think of a single person who did not value his friendship. At the slightest hint of need, Dad dropped everything to assist a friend. He was the first in line to milk cows for an injured dairyman or take food to a sick neighbor.
Once he rescued an entire barn full of cows. All lined up for milking, the cows had stretched their necks through stanchions to access their feed while they awaited their turn. The barn’s rotten floorboards gave way beneath them like the trap door of a gallows, leaving the row of cattle dangling by their necks. Not a single hoof touched the ground.
Dad and the farmer positioned a tractor to support the remainder of the barn floor then rigged up an ingenious series of pulley ropes to hoist each cow from her noose and carefully lower her to the sub-floor. Every cow survived. The next day Dad joined several other neighbors to help repair the barn.
On top of his farm work, Dad served as fire chief, game warden, town policeman, and coach of the local baseball and basketball teams. He rescued baby deer in the spring, calves born in winter, and drunken teenaged boys whenever the need arose. He once jumped into a partially frozen river to save a drowning man.
That winter day Dad was on duty as the police officer. The occurrence of some minor crime sent him chasing the suspect. In an attempt to escape, the fugitive jumped into our river. The water was so shockingly cold that he could not move, much less swim away. Instinctively, my father dropped his gun belt, jumped into the water, and dragged the man to shore. Apparently frigid water makes a bad man weaker and a good man stronger. At the end of the affair my dad discovered that his gun belt had been stolen. Man saved; gun lost. Maddening, but a fair exchange from my dad’s point of view.
As busy as he was with this myriad of vocations, Dad never ran out of time to care for us. During the years we lived on the farm he was the one who tucked us in at night, comforted us when we were sick, removed our slivers, dabbed iodine into every scrape, dried our tears, and spanked our backsides when we deserved it.
The highlight of each day was dinner together around our heavy oak farm table. We were a raucous crowd when we first assembled in our seats. Then at the sound of Dad’s chair pushing back from the table, conversation ceased and all heads turned to watch him rise. As he stood solemnly at the head of the table, Dad paused to absorb the energy of our silence. Then he began. Each word was spoken with such precision that at first we had a hard time telling if he was reciting the opening lines of narrative poetry or sharing his most profound thoughts. Eventually his voice fell into the rhythm of a poem like The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere or The Village Blacksmith, or he pulled from his pocket special pictures from Life and Time magazines. The graphic depictions of starving children tended to appear on liver-and-onion nights.
I don’t know whether every American household considered liver and onions a food group but mine did. The only way I could gag any of it down was to smother the liver in mashed potatoes and swallow it whole. More than one liver-and-onion night we kids were ordered to remain seated at the dinner table to clean our plates long after our parents had finished. More than once we were told to remember the starving children in China. We wished with all our hearts that those poor kids could have the liver, not only the liver on our plates, but all the liver that would ever be.
After dinner we gathered near my father and waited for him to pick up the lucky kid whose turn had come to sit on his lap as he watched TV until our appointed bedtime. Then Dad escorted us upstairs and made rounds to each bedroom. Ceremoniously he pulled the covers right up to each of our chins. If we had colds, Dad rubbed Vicks Vaporub on our chests, placing a final dab under our noses before tucking us in. As the smell permeated the room, we felt safe, warm and loved.
The only thing in this writing that outshines your father's incredible heart is your ability to describe it so well that we know it and feel it.
Superb.
Terry
As I read this, my mind was constructing a portrait of an extraordinary person, an ideal father and a good citizen of the world. I believe that no better tribute than this piece could ever be written to honor him. Thank you, Karen, for sharing it.
WOW! And besides that, the only other word I can think of that best summarizes this wonderful piece is "cinematic". Ms. Vanderlaan uses language like an artist uses paint---creating a bright, clear picture which I loved. Especially the part about the Vicks Vaporub---it reminded me of my own childhood.
Well done, Ms. Vanderlaan!
Reviewed by Teresa Kitchens-Dunn
7/24/2007
Karen,
I enjoyed this story very much and your Dad sounds like an extraordinary man and a wonderful Father.
This story, another excellent re-telling of life, brought goosebumps, Karen -- you are masterful at these. You are writing your memoirs, one short story at a time, and what glorious memories you have to write them from. A heart-warming and charming glimpse into a loving family.
Love,
CJ
Wow! Your dad reminds me a lot of what my mom used to do. We had a similar upbringing it seems, Karen. This is a fine tribute for your dad. Thank you for sharing it. Love and peace to you,
Regis
Reviewed by April Smith
8/30/2006
What great memories of what sounded like a great father. :-) Thanks for sharing, April
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