My dad was a dairy farmer, my mother worked outside alongside him and so did I. During the nineteen-forties and fifties, there were child-sized jobs on a family enterprise. For example, before evening milking, he dipped ground feed from a five-gallon bucket and placed it in a pile in front of each cow’s stanchion. I followed and topped each mound with a small scoop of dry molasses taken from my sand pail. When more feed needed to be ground at the Davis Mill, I held gunny sacks open while Dad used a scoop shovel to fill them with oats stored in the granary bin.
Dad and I also did fun things. My parents bought a pony for me when I was 4 1/2. To take rides together, Dad would mount his horse, Mickey, and hold onto a lead rope attached to Millie’s bridle do she couldn’t run away with me.
As I was growing up, Illinois law required the owner’s name and address be painted on the pick-up truck’s doors to prevent rustling of farm animals. For years, I secretly hoped that when Dad could afford a pick-up, he’d include “& Daughter” with his name like other men included “& Son.” I was twenty years old before Dad could purchase a good used, 12-year-old truck for $250. I painted his name and address on the blue doors. I was still Daddy’s girl, but no longer needed it proclaimed on the side of the vehicle.
Dad’s death from a heart attack when he was only 63 was a big shock. I relish the time I spent with him. I’m also thankful for the time our three children spent with their grandfather.
What are your memories of your father?