Holy Smokes!

---

He sidled towards us, literally. That old, old man body, but sturdy. Farmer jeans fitted over boots, John Deere bronze belt clenching the denims just under the potbelly. His posture was locked, bent knees inwards, and locked, forward bent torso at the hips.

But this man gives no clue to his caving body. His name is Bill, and he’s the one that donated all 270 acres of this farm to make it what it is. We asked him how he first met the founder here, and he said, “Well, it was just so. I knew this man was doin’ good, so I called ‘em up.”

Quite modest on his past and present, our garden manager had to drag some “war” stories from gentleman Bill, who was also wearing a flannel shirt and Foxwoods hat and sayin’ “Holy Smokes” and “Oh, My Achin’ Back” more times than you can count ‘em.

He relayed some story about the organization’s first donation and trip in 1944: he helped fly a bunch of heifers (female cows that have not yet given birth) down to Cuba or Puerto Rico or somethin'. Told a story of how the pilot landed on one wheel on an “airstrip” that ended in the ocean. He said the heifers were happy sightseeing, and the fire engines were waitin’, but everyone turned out just fine. Then he told some more farmer stories involving homemade windmills, tipping silos and burly steers.

I don’t care what part of if his stories were true if at all, because, holy smokes, I haven’t heard a story like that from a farmer like him since my achin’ back started achin’.

---

Photos

Heartland
A farmer just gave us this. Gave. Just look at it.