The Front Porch Promise

By Debra Runge Meder

"The Front Porch Promise" is a breathtaking story about one incredible woman's life and her ability to overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Following the tragic loss of her parents, the author, who was then just nine years old, and her three siblings were torn apart. With her older sisters departing on different paths, the author and her five-year-old brother were taken from the only life they had ever known—a rural dairy farm—and moved to the busy metropolis of Buffalo, New York, a city seventy-five miles away. Being forced to reside with their maternal aunt in a tiny five-room flat in the heart of the city, every aspect of their lives had changed. Stripped of confidence, trust, and childhood innocence, the author was forced to embark on an against-all-odds journey of growth and survival. Despite all of the challenges, extraordinary circumstances led her to believe in miracles.

The author's relatives wore two faces, one in public and another in private. While in public, they presented themselves as devout Christians and church leaders who made a God-honoring decision to love and care for two hurting and orphaned children. However, within the walls of the home, they showed their true selves. They were religious hypocrites who abused the author physically, sexually, verbally, and emotionally. Fearing punishment by both God and her caregivers and realizing the possibility of being separated permanently from her little brother, the author hid the secrets of the abuse and told no one—absolutely no one—the full story of what took place. That is until now.

Apart from revealing the raw struggles and heartbreaking secrets of her life following the loss of her parents, in "The Front Porch Promise", the author shares lingering questions that have haunted her in the decades following her parents' deaths: Does God really love me? If He loves me, can He heal my broken heart and restore my family?

Her questions concerning God's love for her lingered for decades—all until August of 2016, when something so remarkable happened that helped her believe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667824208

Book preview

cover.jpg

Copyright © 2021 Debra Runge Meder

All rights reserved

This book is written based on my memories and the memories of my siblings. It is written solely from my perspective. I have endeavored to represent events, conversations, and personal interactions throughout this book as accurately as possible.

print ISBN: 978-1-66782-419-2

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66782-420-8

www.thefrontporchpromisefarm.com

Connect on Facebook @ The Front Porch Promise Book group page.

Follow the author’s posts, including pictures from the past and present,

along with updates as the story continues to unfold.

DREAM BIG

Words and Music by RYAN SHUPE

© 2004 WARNER-TAMERLANE PUBLISHING CORP.

All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission of ALFRED MUSIC

Foreword

The book you are about to read tells the inspiring life story of a woman who is the definition of overcomer.

Following the tragic loss of her parents, the author, who was then just nine years old, and her three siblings were torn apart. With her older sisters departing on different paths, the author and her five-year-old brother were taken from the only life they had ever known—a rural dairy farm—and moved to the busy metropolis of Buffalo, New York, a city seventy-five miles away. While there, they resided with their maternal aunt in a tiny five-room flat in the heart of the city with their maternal grandparents living in the flat below them. Every aspect of their life was radically changed, and they were required to conform. The author’s new life stripped her of her self-confidence, trust, and childhood innocence.

The author’s relatives wore two faces, one in public and another in private. While in public, they presented themselves as devout Christians and church leaders who made a God-honoring decision to love and care for two hurting and orphaned children. However, within the walls of the home, they showed their true selves. They were religious hypocrites who abused the author physically, sexually, verbally, and emotionally. Fearing punishment by both God and her caregivers and realizing the possibility of being separated permanently from her little brother, the author hid the secrets of the abuse and told no one—absolutely no one—the full story of what took place. That is until now.

Apart from revealing the raw struggles and heartbreaking secrets of her life following the loss of her parents, in The Front Porch Promise the author shares lingering questions that have haunted her in the decades following her parents’ deaths: Does God really love me? If He loves me, can He heal my broken heart and restore my family?

Her questions concerning God’s love for her lingered for decades—all until August of 2016, when she, along with her eldest sister and younger brother, witnessed something remarkable.

If you struggle to accept that a loving God can be found amid tragedy, loss, and inexplicable hardships, you need to read this book. It is written for you by my mother. Her story may just touch your heart, as it did mine, and lead you to believe that absolutely anything is possible with God.

Kelly R. Labby, J.D., LL.M.

Acknowledgements

The Front Porch Promise happened only by way of God allowing me to live the story written on the following pages. He deserves all the credit. He placed people in my life to encourage and guide me as I penned the words, and I thank Him for the way He continues to unfold my life’s story and that of my family.

Of those individuals God sent my way, I first want to thank Danette Levers for editing my work and Josette Wilcox Peck for her artistic rendering of my book’s title. Their dedication to producing excellence is a rare gift. I am grateful.

Next, I want to thank my son Kevin and daughter Kelly for their unwavering love, support and encouragement throughout my life. When I count my blessings, I cannot even begin to count the millions of ways I have been blessed by both of you.

Turning to my siblings, I must offer a significant thank you to my younger brother Richard Runge (always Ricky to me) for the key role he has played in my life and in the writing of this book. Ricky, my struggle to survive life after Mom and Dad died would have been unbearable had it not been for you. I will always love you, little brother.

Heartfelt appreciation goes out to my sisters Marsha Runge Fairbanks and Cheryl Runge Person as well. Each of you helped me supplement my recollections of events by coupling them with your own. I know at times it was painful. I am so grateful that, of all the people in the world, you were the ones that were chosen to be my big sisters.

Next, I extend my heartfelt thanks to Albert VanDette Jr. Albert, thank you for allowing God to work through you to give my family a miraculous gift.

Finally, and most importantly, this story would not have the conclusion it does without my husband Rick—the most God-trusting, generous, and worry-free dreamer I have ever known. His love for me is demonstrated by his love for God, and it proves to me that Psalms 20:4 is true. Rick, I love you with all my heart forever and always.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Ricky, my little brother. Ricky, promise me you will never forget November 28, 2016, the night we witnessed a long-awaited miracle together.

Table of Contents

Introduction

The Visit Home

A Lilac Tree, Toast, and Tractors

Chain Gangs, Hay Boogers, and Striking It Rich

Weeds, Steel, and Chickens

Snakes, a Crow, Cow Pies, and Horse Bites

A Boy Named Dave and a Room with a View

TVs, Dancing Dutch People, and a Baby Bassinet

A Kitchen Sink Song and a Stave Sidewalk

Sweet Dreams, Stairs, and Slinkys

A Bathtub, Indiana Jones, and Green Vomit

Sugar Tits, Drunk Pigs, Rotten Eggs, a Turkey Roaster,

and a Horse Named Blazer

Artificial Insemination, Milking Machines, and Pull-ups

A Side Yard and a Skating Rink

Stitches, a Bull, Checkers, and a Fluffy Puppy

Green Grapes, Green Beans, a Golden Ham, and Cancer

Cooties, Blizzards, Funerals, and Final Goodbyes

Life Goes On

Brown Paper Bags, an Eyebrow Pencil,

and Violet Perfume

Friday the Thirteenth and Messengers from Above

A Flower Basket and a Purple Plaid Skirt

A Teacher, a Box, and a Class Play

Dirt, a Bicycle, and a Broken Heart

Birthdays, Boise, and the Bible

Santa Claus and the Front Porch Promise

Church, Violins, and Pocatello

Shuffled Off to Buffalo

Candy, Gum, 24-Hour Surveillance, and Seclusion

Play Ball

School and Swimming

Sinners, Saints, and a Lawyer

Square Dancing

Arthritis, Hemorrhoids, and a Butcher Shop

Christmas Extravaganza, Octopuses,

and a Cardboard Playhouse

Piano Music, a Recliner Chair, Stories and Jokes

A Birthstone Ring, Doctor Visits, and Secret Scars

Rations and a Training Bra

A Birthday Party and the Twist

Tears and Dancing Dutch People

White Wool Socks, a Fitted Skirt, and Penny-Pinching

Orchestral Pits, Bus Passes, and Soiled Lunch Bags

A Revival Tent

Teen Camp, an Indian Boy, and Misbehaving

A Bulletin Board, California or Bust,

and the Family Truckster

A Pizza Party, Lipstick, and Bowling Balls

Strawberry Wine and a Happy Hayride

Starting Over

Bees, Bovines, and Happily Ever After

Together Again

Ready, Set, Dream

Santa Claus and God

Here Comes Christmas

Family Reunion, Teeee-pohooth,

Tractors, and Silo Signs

Resurrection Party, a Birthday Bike,

and an Oil Painting

Bonfire, Beers, Family, Friends, and Fireworks

The End Is Only the Beginning

Introduction

One day you will tell your story of how you’ve overcome what you have gone through and it will become part of someone else’s survival guide. – Author Unknown

I have told no one—not one single person—the details of what I fully experienced. That is until now. Today will tell my story of surviving, overcoming, healing and restoration.

Chapter 1

The Visit Home

The three of us stood in silence side by side in the U-shaped gravel driveway facing the farmhouse resting on the small hill above us. No one spoke a word.

A lifetime had passed since that heartbreaking day, Friday, January 13, 1961. It was now August 20, 2016.

The U-shaped gravel driveway was precisely as it had been fifty-five years ago, but the three of us were different—very different. My oldest sister Marsha, her husband Dave, and I were no longer children. We were grown adults.

To our left, at the bottom of the hill, stood what remained of the barn, milk house, feed room, haymow, and the silo. Our eyes simultaneously surveyed the structures. Like the three of us, they too were different. They had changed with time. We studied them, moving our eyes from one childhood landmark to the other. Their present condition was proof that the years had demanded more from them than their failing frames were able to give. Over time the vivacity of the familiar buildings had been drained, leaving nothing more than crumbling architectural skeletons of their former selves.

My eyes shifted back to the farmhouse on the hill and my heart began to pound with excitement. I traced the contours of the front porch entryway and the slanted roofs. I was stunned. The farmhouse appeared unscathed, withstanding the passage of time. The difference between the farmhouse and other buildings was stark. I contemplated how it was that the house had been spared, surviving the last fifty-five years seemingly untouched by time’s exacting toll. I concluded that the house had been singled out from the other buildings. It was as if it had been set apart, supernaturally protected by divine intervention. I had no other explanation. Fifty-five years had passed but it remained, intact and strong.

From where I stood in the driveway, it seemed like the house was returning my gaze, lovingly looking down on me from atop the hill. I couldn’t help but feel an inexplicable sensation of love and security emanating from its exterior. It was a familiar feeling. I had felt it decades ago as a child when I returned home at the end of the school day. It was a reassuring feeling as a child, but today, the feeling was somehow mysteriously stronger than before.

As I looked around the premises, absorbing the view, my heart took me back in time to when I had called this place home.

Returning to the farm in Cassadaga, New York, was not easy. I had not been back home with any of my siblings—Marsha, Cheryl, or Ricky—since January 16, 1961, the day we buried my mother. I was only nine years old on that cold, dark, wintry day. Standing there now with Marsha and Dave, the timing and string of events that had brought me back home surfaced in my mind. Recalling how it had all transpired, I suddenly felt a powerful presence surrounding me. I cannot explain it. There have been times that I have doubted the presence of God in my life, but this was not one of those times.

A not-too-distant sound suddenly caught my attention. I turned my head to listen. It came from the apple trees located on the far side of the farmhouse. The rhythmic chant hovered over the rooftop of the house. It hung there, suspended in the air like an echo from the past, before it floated down to where I stood. The sound, like my favorite childhood blanket with satin edges, wrapped itself around me with an eerie familiarity of comfort. Caw … caw … caw. It was the call of a crow. I smiled. The crow’s call confirmed I was home.

Just months after our mother was buried in a gravesite alongside the freshly dug grave of our father, our family farm was sold at a public auction. Mr. Albert VanDette Sr., who owned multiple farming properties, purchased our 200-acre dairy farm. Following the purchase, tenant farmers moved into the farmhouse to oversee the farm operations for the VanDette family.

At the outset, it was operated by his tenant farmers as a dairy farm. Over the years, with the declining economics of family dairy farming, the decision was made to stop dairy farming altogether and convert the farm acreage exclusively to crop farming. It was then that the barn was emptied of livestock and the VanDette family rented out the land to an agricultural enterprise specializing in growing corn and soybeans. However, the tenants remained as residents of the farmhouse throughout the years following our mother’s death until just one week before our visit on August 20, 2016. For those entire fifty-five years, the tenants had called our family farm their home.

In the course of those fifty-five years, Albert VanDette Sr. passed away, leaving the property to his namesake, Albert VanDette Jr.

The week before our visit, my daughter Kelly noticed the tenant farmers were vacating the farmhouse. By now they had aged. She speculated they were moving to a more senior-friendly environment.

Realizing that the farm buildings and farmhouse would likely be demolished, or at best, left vacant for an extended period of time, she approached Albert Jr. and asked if she might surprise me and my siblings by orchestrating a tour of the property.

Albert Jr.’s immediate response was, Of course, by all means. They can stay as long as they like. Please feel free to stop by any time after the tenants have moved. And please give your family my best.

Although Albert Jr. had given my daughter permission for us to tour the farm, he did not provide a key to enter the house. Unknowingly, however, what he gave our family was far more valuable. It was the key to unlock our past, allowing us to open the door of healing and to embark on a journey of mending fifty-five years of broken hearts.

Chapter 2

A Lilac Tree, Toast, and Tractors

The three of us looked around the property and then at each other. A quiet voice in our hearts interrupted the silence between us. Memories. They lovingly whispered to us, Welcome home. We have been waiting for you. Come follow us.

With some apprehension, not sure what we would find, Marsha, Dave, and I walked forward together up the small hill on the left side of the farmhouse by the crumbling silo. I stopped after a few steps. It was gone. The lilac tree had been there when I was a little girl. I remembered it. The memory of the lilac tree had stayed with me throughout my childhood, comforting me during the darkest times that followed my parents’ deaths. It was a fragrant precious memory of happiness that had grown deep roots in my heart. I closed my eyes, momentarily picturing the lilac tree in my mind. It had been sheltered by larger trees that surrounded the house. The large trees shielded the delicate lilac tree and the farmhouse from the wind and weather, like the outstretched wings of guardian angels.

I opened my eyes. The guardian-angel trees were gone now too. I was sure they had become the unsuspecting victims of time, losing their strength to battle the storms and survive the harsh elements. All that remained in their place were sunken spots in the ground where they had once stood. The dips of the uneven ground served as a visible reminder that time changes things, and in its wake, scars are left. As I looked at the divots in the ground, I realized I shared a commonality with them: the land where the trees once stood was scarred by loss in a deep and lasting way, just like me. Although I knew my own scars would likely be cut open as I moved forward with the tour, something inside me assured me I had the strength to see what was ahead of me.

Standing there deep in thought, my memory took me back in time to 1959, the summer before my family was devastated by tragedy. I was eight years old that hot summer morning.

My three-year-old brother, Ricky, and I were seated at his miniature children’s table in the small farmhouse kitchen, making big plans for the day as we ate our bowls of Tony the Tiger They’re GREAT Frosted Flakes. The scrumptious flakes were soaked in fresh cow’s milk from the previous night’s milking. We both said we knew it was buried under the lilac tree. We decided, without even a hint of hesitation, we were going to dig for it until we found it.

As we ate our cereal, we discussed the logistics of digging with all the seriousness of well-dressed financial executives scrutinizing company cash flow charts and balance sheets. We agreed we did not want to leave anything behind. This adventure was a big deal, and it required careful thought and attention to detail. Together we were engrossed in planning as we stuffed our mouths with cereal. Suddenly, my brother’s face lit up and oozed excitement. His eyes danced and twinkled as he exclaimed, in his three-year-old Aha! voice with a notable lisp and inability to pronounce the sound of the letter s, "We will use a teeee-pohooth!" raising his cereal spoon high in the air for me to see as if it were Exhibit A in a world-famous criminal trial.

Yes! Yes! I responded with enthusiasm. Teaspoons will help us so we don’t miss any small ones that might be hard to see, I added, as affirmation of his genius. At age three, Ricky was already showing signs of a promising and successful career in excavation and heavy equipment operation. Satisfied that the teaspoon-tool digging plan was shear brilliance, we resumed eating our soggy cereal.

Just then, we heard the door of the enclosed front porch open with a loud ear-piercing squeak. There was no such thing as sneaking into our farmhouse. The familiar alarm of the squeaky front porch door was our version of a homemade security system. Daddy entered the porch and let the door slam shut behind him. He took off his green rubber barn boots, opened the door to the kitchen, and quickly stepped inside while closing the door behind him in a futile attempt to prevent flies from accompanying him into the house.

Daddy’s presence in the house signaled that morning milking chores were done. He was taking a break before going to the hay field. He smiled at us with his gentle grin and said, Mornin’ kids. A pungent aroma trailed after him as he walked over to the electric coffee pot on the countertop next to the stove. Some men wore Old Spice in the 1950s; my dad proudly wore cow shit.

He poured a cup of coffee, dumped a pile of sugar into the hot black liquid, and flooded it with fresh heavy cream he had skimmed off the top of a milk can during milking chores the night before. He stirred the concoction until a whirlpool was formed and then lifted the cup to his mouth, taking a long, deep gulp. He put his cup down and opened the Wonder Classic White Bread plastic wrapper.

The iconic wrapper with its colorful balloon display could be found in kitchens everywhere, including ours, but only on those occasions when we were out of Mom’s famous homemade bread. While the plastic wrapper’s primary function was to preserve the freshness of the chemical-laden white bread, it perhaps was best known for its ability to double as snow boot inserts during the frigid winter months in Western New York. It was an unwritten rule: If you lived in the Lake Erie snowbelt, you never threw an empty Wonder Bread wrapper in the trash. Daddy grabbed the last piece of bread out of the bag, leaving the empty wrapper on the countertop for my mother to retrieve and save. We did not have to remind him that Wonder Bread was totally inferior to Mom’s homemade bread. He knew that. He also knew that it would do just fine for his mid-morning snack of half-burnt toast and bacon grease.

He loaded the slice of bread into the bread-sized opening on the end of Mom’s new walk-through toaster. Mom was the envy of farm wives everywhere with her new state-of-the-art kitchen Toast-O-Lator contraption. He punched the on button. The red light illuminated and the conveyor belt inside the dark recesses of the silver gadget began to march forward toward the other end. Instantly the bottom of the pseudo-bread was caught in the grip of the spikes on the conveyor belt like a small helpless animal snared in the talons of a red-tailed hawk. Ricky and I loved observing the Toast-O-Lator at work. We watched from the table as the bread began its conveyor belt journey, inching slowly through the intense heat of toaster hell as it filled the kitchen with the smell of scorched bread. The scene was a daily routine in our small farmhouse kitchen.

Confident that the bread was successfully in the process of becoming toast, Daddy turned around, took a couple of steps in the tiny kitchen, and put the cream pitcher back in the 1946 white General Electric Westinghouse refrigerator. The refrigerator not only housed the pitchers of fresh milk and cream, but it was also capable of providing a home to exactly one half-gallon of ice cream and one metal ice cube tray all at the same time, compliments of the tiny square freezer box located inside the refrigerator. Next to the farm tractors, my father’s most-used piece of equipment was the kitchen refrigerator.

After depositing the cream pitcher in the refrigerator, Daddy turned again and leaned up against the white Geneva metal kitchen cabinets. Letting out a sigh, he took another sip of coffee. He waited patiently for the bread to trudge through the glowing red-hot torture chamber. It completed its journey by being forcefully ejected onto the countertop from the opening on the opposite end of the appliance marvel. He slathered an ample amount of butter on the blackened toast as he eyed the frying pan on the stove containing room-temperature bacon grease. He began to salivate. My brother and I knew what would happen next. Daddy would plow his toast through the thick bacon grease in an effort to gather as much as possible before popping it in his mouth. Daddy wore his poor eating habits like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. He was overweight. In addition to warm toast drowned in bacon grease, he loved all things drenched with butter, oversized bowls of ice cream, and occasional multiple beers at the Witch-Kitch Inn—occasional and multiple being far too often and way too many for Mom’s liking.

As Daddy swallowed the first bite of his breakfast snack, Ricky and I stopped eating our mushy Frosted Flakes. With all the authority of political heads of state, we announced to him that money was buried in the sandbox under the lilac tree and we were going to dig for it until we found it. Daddy smiled gently, patted the top of my little brother’s head, took another bite of the bacon grease-soaked toast, and winked at us. Dig until you find it, kids. Do your best. Remember, your last name is Runge, emphasizing the sound of eeee at the end of our last name. My father took every opportunity he could to stress the importance of properly enunciating the e at the end of our German surname. We all knew we were Rung-eeees, not Rungs. We are German, he continued. "Rung-eeee Germans don’t ever give up until the job is done. Get ‘er done kids!" he said with a twinkle in his eye as he put his coffee cup in the sink and walked out the kitchen door. He slipped his barn boots on, opened the front porch door, and went out to the gravel driveway, taking the last bite of his toast as he began his descent down the hill.

My brother and I grabbed our breakfast teaspoons and licked the remaining drops of milk from the eating utensils. Instantaneously they were transformed into digging tools. We scampered outside barefoot, following Daddy as far as the lilac tree located on the left side of the house by my parents’ bedroom window. Ricky immediately dropped down on his knees and began digging with his teaspoon while I stood there, my eyes glued on my father as he walked down the driveway to the gasoline fuel tank at the bottom of the hill.

The fuel tank was strategically located alongside the driveway in front of the milk house and barn. It was directly adjacent to a section of field that was not tilled for crops. The field area served as a make-shift farm parking lot in the summer months for assorted heavy-duty farm equipment, including our three Farmall tractors. Every farm had a fuel tank used to fill the tractors, farm trucks, family cars, and other gasoline-sucking pieces of machinery. To my mother’s frustration, our fuel tank was also frequently used by complete strangers and cheap relatives who came from the city to visit the farm. Both strangers and family members helped themselves, uninvited, as if the fuel tank was their very own personal self-serve Sunoco station.

My brother continued to dig with his spoon as I watched Daddy descending the hill toward the fuel tank. I was lost in thought as I stood there holding my teaspoon, replaying the memory of one evening when Daddy attended a high school basketball game with my two sisters. As was often the case, my mother, my brother, and I stayed home while my father and sisters went to the game together. I remembered Mom was sitting at the dining room table working on the farm financial books, my brother was sleeping in his crib, and I was playing a game of Pick-up Sticks under the dining room table when a car pulled into our driveway. When Mom heard car tires rolling over the gravel, she stopped working on the books and looked out the two dining room windows. The two windows overlooked the enclosed front porch. The outside walls of the front porch were entirely encased with glass windows, giving her an unobstructed view of the entire U-shaped driveway. She watched intently as the driver pulled the car slowly around the driveway, stopping alongside the fuel tank. A man got out of the vehicle and began filling its gas tank with our gas. Mom quietly got up from the table, turned off the dining room light, and walked through the kitchen doorway to the darkened front porch. I followed her.

Although I am sure the dipwad thought he was under the cover of night, he failed to recognize that he was visible from the illumination of a full moon that hung directly over his head. Using lunar night vision, compliments of God, my mother had the dumbass squarely in her sights. My mother grabbed one of Daddy’s shotguns from the corner of the front porch where he stored his hunting and fishing equipment. She muttered a string of inaudible words under her breath while she huddled by the window, gripping the shotgun tightly with both hands as she watched the thief happily helping himself to our gasoline.

Even though I was very little at the time, I was smart enough to know she was trying to decide what kind of woman she wanted to be in that very moment: a forgiving Christian woman called by God to help and serve others in need, or a pissed-off Annie Oakley loaded for bear. As the man pulled out of our driveway with a full tank of gas, I knew she chose the former, but I had no doubt she was fully capable of the latter. When needed, my mother proved to be a fearless, courageous woman. I didn’t know it then as I huddled with her on the front porch, but in the years to come, she would demonstrate her fearless courage with unwavering strength. Her strength through unspeakable tragedy would become a lasting memory for me of her deep love and devotion to her children and to our farm.

My thoughts returned from that scene on the front porch with my mother clutching the gun back to the lilac tree and my brother. I could hear him furiously digging for money in the dirt with his cereal spoon as if he were a squirrel frantically hiding nuts in preparation for a raging blizzard. I did not join him. I sat down, but I continued to hold my spoon in my hand and watched Daddy as he fueled up the Farmall H tractor.

The Farmall H was his favorite tractor. It possessed the three things my father required of farm equipment ownership. It was big. It was powerful. It was red.

With the tractor full of gas, Daddy grasped the mammoth steering wheel and slung his oversized body up onto his prize red tractor. He sat down on the seat made of cold, hard, unforgiving metal. It was constructed with strategically placed large holes stamped in it. The seat had been molded to fit a farmer’s posterior like a perfectly fitted ass-glove with built-in air conditioning. The holes were dual purpose—they cooled a farmer’s hind end on hot days as he drove the tractor in the fields, and they also provided the rain water and melting snow an escape when the tractor had been left outside in the elements.

Daddy put in the clutch with one foot, depressed the brake with the other, made sure the tractor was in neutral, opened the choke, and started the tractor engine. The engine responded immediately. I was sure he was grateful he did not have to start it manually with the dreaded hand-crank he called by a special foul name—the same name I am positive he used while in the Navy to describe the enemy during World War II. Only Daddy could call the hand-crank by that name, although I was quite certain my sisters said the name in their heads when they had to use the blankety-blank-blank crank to start the tractor. He moved the tractor forward a few feet and then threw it in reverse and backed it up carefully, lining up Big Red’s back end with the front end of the color-coordinated red McCormick-Deering hay baler. Satisfied they were sufficiently aligned, Daddy put the tractor in neutral, set the brake, dismounted with a heavy thud, and then hitched the two together with a long round iron hitching pin. He hoisted himself back onto the tractor, plunked back down in the metal seat, and put Big Red in reverse, this time backing up both the tractor and hay baler to the front hitch of the flat rack hay wagon. Again, he put the tractor in neutral, set the brake, dismounted, and hitched the front of the hay wagon to the ass end of the hay baler with another round iron hitching pin. The Runge farm haying equipment train was ready to roll. It was a thing of beauty watching my father maneuver pieces of large farm equipment with such ease. It was like they were nothing more than miniature toys in his big hands. Watching Daddy as he drove the tractor in the fields was like watching my favorite TV show, The Mickey Mouse Club. No matter how many times I had seen it I craved more.

The familiar putt-putt sound of the tractor’s engine and puffs of gray-black smoke from the smokestack dotted the clear azure blue summer sky. I watched as Daddy headed toward the hay field to join the waiting team of field hands. That morning the team included my sisters Marsha and Cheryl, Marsha’s boyfriend Dave, and our live-in hired farmhand, Ray.

It was haying season on the farm that summer—the season of endless hard labor, profuse sweating, stinging sunburn, and persistent sneezing. The family medicine cabinet had been stocked with bottles of liniment oil for sore muscles and aching backs. Bottles of Corn Huskers Lotion Heavy Duty Hand Treatment could be found in the bathroom underneath the sink and in the barn by the huge green tin of Bag Balm. Calloused and blistered hands were inevitable during haying season despite wearing thick heavy-duty canvas work gloves. If the Corn Huskers did not work to treat the calluses and blisters, the magic potion of Bag Balm cow udder salve would. No one was exempt from paying the physical price demanded by haying season. It was required. It was one of the busiest times of the year, and in many respects, most farmers would agree, it was perhaps the best time of the year.

Family and friends showed up unannounced to pitch in and help. Farm wives cooked and baked enough food for a large army, and lemonade and iced tea flowed like unstoppable artesian wells. For the farmers who lived with strict prohibitionist wives like my mother, beer bottles were secretly submerged, out of sight, amidst a multitude of full-to-the-brim metal milk cans that were set deep inside the water bath cooler located in the milk house.

Our milk house was the equivalent of a bank vault for our dairy farm. Built with heavy cinder blocks, it was naturally climate controlled, secure, solid, impenetrable, and valuable. I know the beer was hidden in the milk house water bath cooler during haying season. I had seen it. Beer bottles were cleverly tied to a rope by my father so that the bottles could be secretly submerged between the milk cans and then fished out from the tank of cold water by hot, sweaty, dirty men. They would take a long swig, sigh loudly with satisfaction, and burp like an explosion, while simultaneously scratching their asses to remove hay stubble that had lodged itself in their pants. Mom never knew