Etcetera

By: Dennis D. Price

etcetera

[et-set-er-uh, ‐se-truh]

1.  a number of other things

2.  extras or sundries

3.  Random stories from the past told for Christmas, 2018

Seventeen Dogs

This story happened before I was born, but I was told the story of my dad owning 17 dogs at one time—many of them hunting dogs. Some were coon hunting dogs. I think this happened soon after my mom and dad moved to the Rockbridge farm in the spring of 1947. Mr. Zeno Curnutt, the landlord, said to him, “I never knew anyone to amount to very much who owned a lot of dogs!” The story goes that my dad got rid of most of them soon after this comment.

Granger

    I don’t know if I remember this or I just remember being told about it. Granger was a dog that my mom and dad had when I was a toddler or perhaps a little older. When I was in the yard and started out toward the barn, Granger would lay down in front of me and not let me go any further. Don’t know anything else about Granger, but I’ve always been glad Granger was around. He obviously helped keep me around! [Addendum: I probably shouldn’t tell this for security reasons, but even now when one of the websites asks me to pick a security challenge question, I sometimes pick “Favorite Pet” and my answer is “Granger”!]

Head First

    After our house burned in March 1955, we moved into a new house in July 1955. The new house was built on the same spot of ground on which the old farmhouse stood. This event probably was sometime later that year. I was in the basement with a little toy broom sweeping along the edge of the wall. I heard a noise at the top of the basement steps and ran over to the staircase. My little sister, Debbie, was falling down the steps. She was only a couple years old. Miraculously I made it to the steps just in time to catch her before she hit the concrete. I still remember holding her head when mom heard her fall and came down to get her.

A Frantic Search

     Not sure what day or year this happened, but it was a frantic search by all of us when we discovered that my sister, Debbie, was nowhere to be found. We looked all over the house, the barn, barn loft, and other buildings around the farm. We had a couple of tanks of water including a concrete tank that we used to play in from time to time. We walked down there and checked. Fortunately, she was not in or near any of those. Everyone was getting really worried about her disappearance. One more time, I went to the basement. We had an old couch down there and behind the couch Debbie was sleeping on the floor. It was a good place to take a nap for a couple of reasons: it was cool there and she was effectively getting away from a couple of teasing brothers. We were relieved and very glad that she was found.

Dramatic Rescue

     I guess it is by God’s grace that we survived our childhood. There were some close calls. I’ll tell you about one of them. We had a wagon equipped with a water tank on it that we used to haul water for livestock. We creatively called it the water wagon! In the front part of the wagon there was some space that a little boy like me could ride. Many times, I rode there as dad took water to various tanks around the farm. I wasn’t very old the day I was riding on the water wagon and Greg was sitting on dad’s lap while dad was driving the Oliver tractor. We were heading up a hill by the hedge row when the pin came out of the water wagon tongue and the wagon started rolling backwards. I don’t know how he did it, but my dad stopped the tractor, put the parking brakes on, set Greg on the ground, ran toward me and the water wagon, grabbed the tongue and turned the wagon just before it rolled into the creek at the bottom of the hill! It was an amazing and dramatic rescue! There were other close calls that will have to be told by others and at other times, but this one is my story and I’m sticking to it!

Bert and Mert

     My dad’s name was Basil. My mom’s name was Agnes. If anyone was near the door when my dad came in to get something from the house, they would hear him call out, “Mert!” That was what he called my mom! Somewhere along the way, she told us that when they were younger, they went to a movie where there were characters named Mert and Bert. After the movie, they decided that they would call each other by those names. Mert stuck. Bert didn’t![1]

Exodus 34:21

[Six days you shall labor, but on the seventh day you shall rest; even during the plowing season and harvest you must rest. Genesis 34:21]

     From just about my earliest memory, my dad did not do any farming (except feeding and occasionally some “emergency” work) on Sundays. One time he told me the story of how this practice got started for him. We have one field of bottom ground on the farm. He wanted to finish planting that field before the rain, so one Sunday (I think it was during the 1957 planting season), he planted the bottom field. That night it rained four inches and washed out the seed corn on that field. He had to replant it later. He decided then and there he would not do any work on Sunday. On our farm, this has been a five-decade practice. And as  Exodus says, it’s been a practice even during the plowing and harvesting season!

An Accurate Throw

     I always liked to hear stories that my dad would tell about his growing up years. One story I particularly liked was the one about an accurate throw! He said that his dad was in a nearby field plowing. This was during the time when a horse pulled the plow, the reins that were used to guide the horse were slung over the neck of the “plower” as he walked behind the plow. While my grandpa was plowing, my dad saw a grease bucket lid on the ground nearby and thought it would be interesting if he could throw that lid all the way to the field. He threw it like a frisbee and he said the lid came down perfectly on the back of the horse. Of course, the horse bolted. My grandpa was thrown to the ground. The plow was bouncing as the horse ran all the way to the barn. The rest of this story, according to my dad, included a whipping with a harness strap!

A Dad Joke

     Way before anyone heard of dad jokes, we heard our share of them. One of my dad’s favorite jokes that he told was this one: a man walked into a restaurant with an onion behind his ear. It never failed, every day he had an onion behind his ear when he visited the place. One day, he entered the establishment with a carrot behind his ear. The staff at the restaurant finally asked him, “why do you have a carrot behind your ear?” He said, “Because I’m out of onions.” I can still hear him tell it. He thought it was funny and laughed a long time after telling this joke. We laughed too—at the joke and at the way he laughed when he told it. If truth be told, I laughed a bit when I typed it out just now!

It probably isn’t good to analyze a joke of this type, but it is interesting to note that the people at the restaurant asked the wrong question. If they really wanted to know what was happening, they should have asked why he had anything behind his ear, not just the carrot on that day! I’m afraid this dad joke thing might have been handed down to succeeding generations!

A Couple of Pranks

     Not only jokes have been part of our family, but pranks and teasing have also shown up from time to time. One time, my cousin, Mike, was visiting with us. Late in the evening, we were playing in the basement. Suddenly, there was a knocking on the basement window. It was startling and scary. But, knowing my dad, we figured it was probably him. We raced upstairs. My mom and dad were in bed, but not asleep yet. There was no way my dad could have come in from outside that quickly after knocking on the basement window. We thought maybe we were hearing things, so we went back downstairs. After a few minutes, there was another knock on the window. We ran upstairs again. Dad was in bed. Now we were really scared. In fact, Mike did not go back downstairs. He sat on the top of the staircase. Finally, we discovered the truth. My dad had used a fishing rod with a weight on the end of the line. He opened his bedroom window, reached out with the fishing line and “knocked” on the window with the fishing weight. Before we ran upstairs, he reeled in the fishing line, put it under the bed and got back in bed. Pretty clever!

     Another time, dad dressed up as an old woman and sneaked out the front door (which we rarely used) and came to the door we always used and knocked. I answered the door and the old woman said, “Is your dad home?” It scared me just a bit as I hollered for my dad. About this time, my mom came in (she was in on this, too). Something about the way my mom looked at me caused me to look again at the old woman. I recognized that it was my dad and just slammed the door! They laughed at the time. I think I might have laughed later. Maybe.

A Chiropractic Ride

     Occasionally, my dad would have trouble with his back. He would describe it as his back being “out.” An observer could tell that it was “out” because while he walked straight ahead, it looked like he was walking a bit sideways! One time, his back was bothering him so much that he couldn’t climb on the tractor.  He asked my mom to drive him back to the pond so he could feed the hogs we had there. She was to drive; he would sit in the back of the feed trailer. My mom didn’t have too much experience with tractors. I don’t remember her being on a tractor much at all. On this day she did fine. She got back to the pond in record time—driving a bit too fast. When she finally stopped, my dad was ready to complain that she went too fast and the bumps were excruciating. When he stood up and started his somewhat indignant speech to her, he suddenly changed his tune and said, “hey, you fixed it!” His back was not “out” anymore, but “put back in place” by an amateur chiropractor on a speedy chiropractor ride.

A Picture-Perfect Temper Tantrum

    I think this story happened on a Sunday evening. My dad needed some help with some feeding or something outside. He asked me to come and help him. I didn’t want to. For the next several minutes he kept asking and I kept saying I wasn’t going to help him. I started crying and refused to get ready to go outside. At one point he got the camera out and said he was going to take a picture of me having this temper tantrum. That really made me mad and I started to run out of the room. In the process, I slipped and fell on the end table and cut my forehead—just above my eyebrow. I was now crying and bleeding. My mom called Dr. Baldwin and he met us at the office and I had to have stitches. It would have been a whole lot better just to have been obedient!  I hope my dad didn’t feel bad about all of this because it was my fault, but I’m sure he did. I don’t like thinking about this story, but it happened. I’m glad it wasn’t repeated--at least to this degree!

A Marksman at the Wrong Time

     I had a couple of BB guns in my growing up years. I used the gun to target practice and sometimes I would try to kill sparrows. My dad didn’t mind us killing the sparrows. They were a nuisance in and around the barn. However, we weren’t supposed to shoot any other birds, especially the graceful barn swallow. So we would go up in the hayloft and try to eliminate some sparrows. I admit it sounds kind of heartless given the witness of the scriptures that says God knows when a sparrow falls, but in my case, God saw that I missed 99.9% of the time. I shot tubes and tubes of BBs at sparrows and missed. One day a barn swallow was sitting on the power line by the barn. I was frustrated that I couldn’t hit a sparrow, so I decided if I couldn’t hit anything, I might as well shoot at the barn swallow. Unfortunately, this one time my aim was deadly. I still remember seeing the swallow falling to the ground.  Probably God notices when barn swallows fall as well. Dad saw it too. And I didn’t see my BB gun for a few weeks!

The Grove

    My dad always liked pecan trees. He planted pecan trees between our house and the road in 1969 or 1970. Anyone who drives by the farm can now see the beautiful, tall, majestic pecan grove that was planted almost 50 years ago. My dad didn’t live to see what this pecan grove looks like today and the many pecans that it has produced. There is this reality in my dad’s experience that is embodied in this quote by Regan Sutrefield: “The best of what we sow we won’t live to reap.”

Vacation Fun

     Our family didn’t have very many traditional vacations. The only time all of us traveled for a few days was in 1958. We spent some time in the Ozarks, toured Marvel Cave, and stayed in a cabin in Forsyth, Missouri. Another year (1967) everyone but me went back to the same area. I didn’t want to go, so I stayed home and took care of things on the farm.

     But another vacation week stands out in my mind. One year, mom and dad decided that we would stay home but consider it a vacation week. No farm work would be planned outside of normal feeding. The rest of the time we would do “vacation” things. Honestly, the only thing I remember was that my dad built a raft during that week. He took four empty 55-gallon barrels and constructed a wooden raft with the four barrels on each of the corners. He also built a ladder on one end of it so we could swim in the pond and be able to get on and off the raft. He also built a bench on it for fishing. We took it back to the pond and had fun floating and swimming. It worked great.

Can’t Fool Her

     One of the most popular combines in the 1950s was the Allis Chalmers pull-type combine. This means that the combine was pulled by a tractor. Allis Chalmers or AC as it was called, sold a ton of these combines. Over the years, they made them a bit bigger and used improved technology in the mechanics of the machine. However, they looked essentially the same. My dad had at least one of the earlier models, then traded for the looks-the-same-but-a-little-bit-bigger-improved model. It was parked in the barnyard and my dad asked my sister, Debbie, how she like his new combine. She went to the window, looked out at the machine for just a second, turned away, and stated in a matter-of-fact way: “you can’t fool me, you just painted it!”

A Lesson Learned the Hard Way

    We have almost always had a Ferguson tractor around the farm. These tractors were small, utility, chore tractors. They were used nearly every day for something. (While we don’t use a tractor like this anymore, we still have a 1957 Ferguson that my grandpa bought new.)

     A Ferguson is the first tractor I learned to drive. I probably wasn’t more than six years old. As a matter of fact I was too small to push the clutch and the brake at the same time, so I had to improvise by making sure if I needed to stop, I pushed the clutch in to take it out of gear then shifted my weight over to the brake. I’m not sure how safe that was, but I distinctly remember doing it.

     The Ferguson was the tractor I used when I started doing field work. I think I was in the fourth grade and one day after school, my dad had the Ferguson and the culti-mulcher ready for me to use in one of the fields. After a few years, I spent so much time on the tractor that I knew all about it—so I thought!

     One day I was using the Ferguson to rake hay, as I remember. Perhaps I was doing something else, but I do know I was in the field about a mile from the house when I ran out of gas. I thought I had enough to finish the task, but I didn’t. So, I walked back to the house. When I got there, I told my dad I had run out of gas. He asked me if I had used the auxiliary tank on it. As much as I had driven that tractor, I had never heard of the auxiliary tank. I thought he was teasing me. He said that if you open the fuel line control knob a couple turns, there is another gallon or so in the tank. When he took me back to the tractor, he did not take any gas, he just turned the knob a couple of turns, and the tractor started up. I had enough gas to drive it home! There was more to learn about that tractor. I have discovered that there is more to learn in just about any situation in life, too!

Be Sure That the Envelope Says Kool-Aid!

     A line in a vintage (probably 1950s era) Kool-Aid jingle says “be sure that the envelope says Kool-Aid.” Well, one day my mom didn’t. The back story that you need to know about that day is that my brother (when he was very little) used to take labels off the cans in the cupboards. He used to take labels off other things, too. Like Kool-Aid packets. (I guess at the time, Kool-Aid came in packaging that had paper on the outside of it.) My mom was fixing a lunch to take to my dad in the field. She fixed the food, then was stirring up the Kool-Aid. Since the paper had been removed by my brother, she didn’t know what flavor it was going to be until she poured it in the pitcher. It was purple that day. She said later that it didn’t look quite right, so she took a drink of it. Then she took another drink trying to figure out what was wrong with it. Then she realized she had mixed up purple dye! Her mouth, tongue and teeth were now purple.

     Then she panicked. She stepped outside and hollered at my Aunt Norma who lived across the field. (Aunt Norma didn’t have a phone.) Mom said she wanted to let someone know that there was a problem in case she keeled over dead! She called the doctor and he concluded that the dye would not hurt her. It didn’t. She lived to laugh and tell about it. But the jingle was right—be sure the envelope says Kool-Aid!

Always Read—and Follow the Instructions

    There is an adage that teaches us “when all else fails, read the instructions.” A corollary to that adage is “when you read the instructions, you should  follow them.” This corollary was played out on a cold day on the farm. My dad and our neighbor, Stu Fitzsimmons, had each bought a new auger feed wagon. They got them cheaper by buying them unassembled and met at our shop to begin putting them together. A fire was built in the stove in our shop for warmth and the task began. As the wagon began to be assembled, the instructions clearly said, “do not tighten bolts until after certain sections of the wagon were assembled.” However, it was the consensus that to save time, the bolts should be tightened as they go. They got to the aforementioned step in the process and it could not be assembled until they went back and loosened all of the bolts that they had previously tightened. They finally got it assembled. The assembly of the second wagon went much quicker because they didn’t ignore the instructions. As a young kid watching all of this, I learned that instructions should not only be read but obeyed! Another way to put it: We must be doers of the instructions and not just readers only!

Church and Community Servants

     My parents were good role models when it came to church and community service. My mom and dad volunteered for many ministry tasks through our church, the Rockbridge United Methodist Church. Mom taught Bible School and Sunday School and helped in many other ways. My dad served as treasurer of the church and also volunteered for things. I remember for several years he was on the team that erected the elaborate nativity scene the church displayed out by the highway during Advent and Christmas.

     My dad also served on the Fire Protection District Board and the Greenfield School Board for at least a couple of terms. I’m not sure exactly what years he served, but it was interesting to see his picture at least in one of my high school yearbooks as a member of the board! 

     It has always been interesting and a matter of pride to see his name on the plaque when the new high school gym was constructed in Greenfield. This new building was first used during my freshman year (1965) in high school. Even though it was built over fifty years ago, people still refer to it as the “new gym.”

     Even now, I will occasionally drive by the building and look at his name, Bail D. Price, on the plaque on the front of the building.

     And another interesting fact is that my step-father, William Hembrough, was also on the school board at the time and his name is listed on the plaque, too!

     I’m grateful to God for the legacy of church and community service that has been handed down to my generation and hopefully will continually be handed down to succeeding generations.

One Last Thing

     There are many other stories that have been told in other writings and could be (and perhaps will be) told in the future. I’m grateful to God for the memories, experiences, and lessons I’ve learned in these etcetera’s in my life.

---

[1] I recently discovered through Google that there was a movie released in 1945 called Murder, He Says. There was a cast member who played both of these roles:  Mert Fleagle and Bert Fleagle. The movie is about a pollster who stumbles on a family of murderous hillbillies,  and joins in their search for hidden treasure. I’m not sure if this was the movie or not, but it was the right time frame and the Google search did not return any other movies with Bert and Mert in them!

Five Sayings of the Wise

Five Sayings of the Wise

I was reading some chapters in the Book of Proverbs a few weeks ago. In the middle of Proverbs 22, the subheading says: “Thirty Sayings of the Wise.” The sayings that follow  contain wisdom from above.

I started thinking about the sayings that I have heard in other contexts. Some more than others. All of them are/were associated with the agricultural world — particularly the world revolving around our family farm. So here are Five Sayings of the Wise — at least I heard them as such.

Did She Come From Together?

I was a teen-ager—maybe 14 or 15 years old. It was my job that day to run the hay baler. We were baling hay for our neighbor, Bud Gibler. We had done work for him quite a few times. He was a good neighbor. Bud is the one who imparted this wise saying to me.

Once in a while, if there was too much hay for the baler to handle at one time, the machine was designed to break a small bolt — we called it a shear pin — so it would not cause major damage to the equipment. We kept extra bolts or pins with us for this contingency. And it was actually a pretty easy fix. After unclogging the baler, a new shear pin would simply be installed.

On the day I heard this saying, the pin had sheared, the tractor was stopped, and I had the tools out to fix it. In the middle of that process, Bud drove up to where I was working, got off of his tractor, came over to me and said, “What happened? Did she come from together?” Not sure why he assigned a gender to the baler, but that’s what he said.

I had never heard this saying describe what most of us would say instead:  “What happened? Did it break?” But there is not much wisdom in that run of the mill saying!

I have told this story countless times. I have often thought about the wisdom in it.

That’s really what happened. It happened to the baler. It happened to human beings. It happened to you and it happened to me. We have come from together.

You see, when the world and people were created, we were together. We were in fellowship with our maker. We were together with God. We were together in our hearts and lives. Pure. No sin. We were together. It worked.

Because of disobedience — sin — we have come from together. And no matter what we do, we can’t get back together on our own. We need a fixer—a savior. Jesus makes it possible for us to be whole again by his death on the cross. We call his sacrifice an atonement—(at-one-ment). When we trust in what Jesus has done for us, it is the fix for all of us who have “come from together.”

You Gotta Stay in Your Seat

I was listening to a few farmers one day talking about hauling grain. The destination of the semi-truck loads was at such a distance that it took some time to make a round trip. The conversation  centered on the fact that the farmer had made four trips in one day. A question on everyone’s mind was asked by someone, “How did you do that?” His answer was this next wise saying: “You gotta stay in your seat!”

In his seat. At the wheel. That’s how it was accomplished. I heard this bit of wisdom not too many years ago. I wished I had known it several decades ago.

It was a hot day. I was cultivating very small bean plants in a very big bean field — 40 acres. In order to do this without destroying the delicate plants, I had to drive very slowly. I probably was only traveling one or two miles per hour. Another neighbor once told me about the speed that was required for this job. He said, (in another, less frequently heard saying,) “You will be going so slow you’ll have to throw your hat on the ground to see if you are moving!” The thing that made this task a particularly difficult one was that the field was directly across the road from our house. Every few trips around the field, I would get off my seat and take a break for quite a few minutes at a time. By not staying in my seat it took an extremely long time and was very frustrating. In fact, I really don’t remember finishing this field. My dad may have taken over and finished it.

How do you get things accomplished? By sticking with it. Keeping at it. St. Paul imparted similar wisdom to his young friend, Timothy. He shared this testimony in 2 Timothy 4:7:  “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”  My translation?  He stayed in his seat!

Over Yonder

I heard this saying many times about many different subjects. “Where did the Smith’s move? Over yonder.”  “Go over yonder and get those bales of hay for the cows.”  “We’re going to go over yonder and check the sows and pigs.”  Most of the time this saying was accompanied by an imprecise wave of the hand or a slight nod of the head toward yonder. 

The definition of yonder is “at some distance in the direction indicated” or “a far distance.”

In those days there were a lot of places named “yonder.” They all were real. They all were comprised of what was originally indicated. The Smith’s did move over yonder. The bales of hay were located over yonder. And the sows and pigs did need to be checked on because they were over yonder. The promise of what was yonder was realized when we got there.

As I was thinking about this saying, the chorus to the old hymn, “Mansion Over the Hilltop” came to mind: 

I've got a mansion just over the hilltop

In that bright land where we'll never grow old

And some day yonder we will never more wander

But walk on streets that are purest gold

Over yonder — a bit fuzzy and imprecise now, but we’ll know and embrace it when we get there.

If We Had Started with this One, We Would Have Been Done a Long Time Ago

I heard this saying frequently. I said this saying frequently. Let me tell you about it. We baled a lot of hay in the summer time. It was hot, sweaty work. Sometimes we would handle around a thousand bales in a long afternoon. Many of those bales were handled more than once. One of the redeeming things of those days was that there were others working along side each other. It took a team of people to do that much work.

When the last bale of the day was lifted off the wagon and put away in the hay loft, someone would undoubtedly say, “If we had started with this one, we would have been done a long time ago.”

Admittedly it was a corny, unrealistic joke — or saying.

But we laughed at it and celebrated the fact that the task was finished. That last bale represented a lot of sweat and exertion. It represented many hours—not just moving the bales, but the preparation of the field, the love of the land, the livestock it would feed in the coming winter. It also represented the fun of working together—often with neighbors. We didn’t do that every day. The last bale also represented the fact that soon we would all gather under the nearest shade tree, drink ice tea and eat cookies and shoot the breeze. Stories and jokes would be told and retold.

Stephen Covey identified one of the habits of successful people:  “begin with the end in mind.”  Not sure if we understood all that meant at the time, but wisely the vision of that last bale was on our radar. The whole enterprise of making hay on a day like that was to get to that last bale.

One other thing about this saying. If the last bale was thrown in the barn or on the stack, it meant that the job was well done. We put all we had into it.

The first part of Ecclesiastes 9:10 says this, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might...”

It took some might and muscle to put up that many bales in a day. If we had started with that last one we would have been done a long time ago!

It Beats a Snowbank

It depended on the hay crop. Some cuttings (there were usually three or four cuttings in one field in a summer) were high quality. Sometimes there might be a few weeds in the hayfield. Sometimes the quality of the hay was just not up to par. But it was baled up anyway.

On those occasions I heard this wise saying:  “It beats a snowbank.”

Let me explain. The hay baled in the summer would be fed to the cattle herd in the winter. We couldn’t predict it, but likely some of those winter days would have several inches of snow on the ground. One of our neighbors wrote about there being so much snow one winter day, it took them until noon to get to the place where they could even begin to feed the cattle.

When there is nothing but snowdrifts and snowbanks in the pastures and feedlots, the hay is essential. It was a matter of life and death for the cattle.

And the wisdom of the saying is that the hay may not be the very best quality—the prize bale at the county fair, but it beats a snowbank!

I think the wisdom in this applies to other areas of our lives. We may complain that the material things we have may not be up to what we would like for them to be, but it beats a snowbank.

Our job may be frustrating, but it beats a snowbank.

We may not be able to afford steak and lobster—only hamburger helper, but it beats a snowbank.

Another aspect of this wise saying is that we should be content with the bales we have—the ones that beat snowbanks. Again, these words from St Paul:  ...I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry6, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength. (Philippians 4:11-13)

Fire Story

fFire Storyf

By: Dennis D. Price © 2009

fFire Storyf

By: Dennis D. Price © 2009

I’m not sure when the fire started. I don’t think anyone else ever figured it out, either. But the fact is our home burned to the ground sometime around noon on Saturday, March 26, 1955. This tragedy had a profound effect on me and members of my family.

I am putting this story in writing because I feel an obligation to tell the story as I am the only one left who has a memory of some of the events that day. While my mom may have written about some of these events in some of her papers, she and my dad are both deceased. My siblings were too young to remember the fire. So, these things are written for people who might be interested in knowing about this defining event in our family. Actually, there is one other eyewitness still living. You will hear about her in the story.

 I have vivid memories of some of the events about that day in 1955. However, some of the things related in this story undoubtedly have come from the telling and retelling of the fire for nearly fifty-five years now.

Before I tell about the fire, there are some things that ought to be known about the house that was our home and the circumstances around which it became our home. The dwelling was (at least I was told), an approximately 100 year old farm house. Standing three stories tall, (it had a finished, full sized attic), it was the main residence on the farm that was owned by Mr. and Mrs. E.Z. (Edgar Zeno) and Jessie Curnutt[1]. While the Curnutts lived in the Greene County seat town of Carrollton, IL, the farm was located approximately two and a half miles west of the village of Rockbridge, Illinois—also in Greene County. Mrs. Curnutt’s maiden name was Achenbach. Her family owned many acres in and around Rockbridge. One can still find “Achenbach Road” on some of the online map programs. And when you find the Achenbach Road intersecting with County Road, you can easily find Jesse Achenbach Curnutt’s inheritance--a four-hundred-forty acre grain and livestock farm, which she and her husband rented out over the years to tenant farmers.

One of those farmers was my dad, Basil Dean Price. After growing up as the oldest of four sons on a dairy farm near Carrollton, Illinois, dad was drafted into the United States Army in 1942 and served in the 69^th Infantry Division in Europe during World War II. After the war, he returned to Carrollton, Illinois, and to his high school sweetheart, Agnes Louisa Robinson, also from Carrollton. I don’t think they were formally engaged until after the war was over. What I do know is that they were married on Sunday afternoon, August 11, 1946, in the bride’s home on North Main Street in Carrollton. They moved into a tenant house on my Grandpa and Grandma’s farm for a few months until they found a farm of their own. (Most all of my ancestors on both sides of the family were farmers. It was a natural step for my dad to be looking for a place to also be engaged in farming.)

When my dad applied to rent the farm near Rockbridge from the Curnutts, he found out that several other farmers—most of them much more experienced farmers—had also applied to rent the property, too. Since my dad was only 24 years old at the time, it was surprising that he was chosen to be the renter. However, since he was so young, there was a condition that Mr. Curnutt placed upon his selection. That condition was that his dad, my Grandpa, Othel Price, was to be a partner in the farming operation. So that’s what happened. On March 1, 1947, my mom and dad moved into the farm house on the Curnutt farm and my dad and his dad and my Uncle Dub (George Washington Price—my dad’s brother) farmed the land.

Most all the members of my family who farm were and are competent and effective. Consequently, it didn’t take long for Mr. Curnutt to see that my dad excelled in farming. After the first year, Mr. Curnutt said it was not necessary for my grandpa to be a partner. So for the next twenty years, my dad was a faithful steward of Mr. and Mrs. Curnutt’s farm. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Both men respected each other and Mr. Curnutt would often respond to my dad’s ideas to improve the farming operation with this comment: “Go ahead and do it, Basil. I’ve learned what’s good for you, will be good for me.”

After 20 years of renting the farm, my dad and mom bought 280 acres of this farm in 1967 and continued to rent the other 160 acres.

I am going to fast forward the story a bit and tell about the circumstances around the purchase of the farm.  My mom and dad had no idea Mr. Curnutt was thinking about selling a majority of his farm. They did notice that even though the Curnutts were aging (Mr. Curnutt was 93 in 1967), they were investing in some major farm improvements. My parents had remarked to one another how unusual that was at this stage in their landlord’s life and wondered what was going on. Mr. Curnutt had contracted with a company to dig a new well, he had the big barn painted, and had done several other things to spruce up the farm and the house. After all that was finished, Mr. Curnutt called my dad to come and talk to him. At that meeting, Mr. Curnutt reiterated all of the improvements he had made and then he said, “Now, Basil, I want you to buy it. And if you need me to, I will even loan you the money to do it!”

He bought it. A faithful journey that began with being selected to be a tenant resulted in my dad becoming the owner! The farm is still in the family.

I always loved hearing the story of how Mr. Curnutt chose the young veteran to tend his farm. I was and am proud. I never tired of hearing this story and would often ask my mom to retell it. Perhaps I’m writing it down so in a sense I can hear it again and again as I read it!

So that’s how the old house became our home and the farm became our life. And this old house became home to me, Dennis Dean, the first born, in 1950. And it became home to my brother Gregory Basil in 1952 and my sister Debra Ann in 1953.

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Spring came early in 1955. At least it seemed like it did. After the devastating hot, dry summer of 1954 when many of the crops were burned up in a hot wind that blew through the area (a few of those days in July, 1954, still hold the record high temperature for this part of the mid-west), farm families welcomed the warm spring days in March. Everyone hoped for a better year.

It certainly was a promising spring and some warm days in March caused many people, including my parents, to plant gardens and fields. According to the National Weather Service (St. Louis, MO) data, March 10, 1955, still holds the record for the high temperature for a March 10th – 86 degrees Fahrenheit. Even though it might have been early for some crops or garden produce to be planted, it certainly didn’t feel like it. I’m not sure about any of the fields, but I do know the garden on our farm was already planted well before March 26, 1955. If the first few days of March were lamb-like, the proverbial lion-like days showed up toward the end of the month! March 25 and March 26 and March 27, 1955, each hold the low temperature records on the St Louis, MO National Weather Service Database. The low temperatures were 11, 5, 15 degrees respectively. It’s hard to believe that the coldest March 26 day ever recorded (1837-2009) happened in 1955: (low 5; high 21). To date, those records have not been broken.

On that record cold day, we lost our home.

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     March 26, 1955, fell on a Saturday. My mom, my brother, my sister and I were in the living room of the house. Our neighbor’s daughter, Donna, was also staying with us. Donna Lewis’ mom and dad, Margaret and Paul had gone somewhere for the day and did not want to leave their daughter at home by herself. It was such a cold day, and stoves and furnaces were working overtime. They were afraid that their house might catch fire. Ironically, Donna was left to be safe with us!

The Lewis’ were good friends. Mrs. Lewis helped my mom with the house cleaning and other household chores. Paul (I’m not sure why we called them Mrs. Lewis and Paul—but we did!) was a hired hand on a neighboring farm. Donna was sixteen and a student at Greenfield High School. A couple years later, when her parents moved to Franklin, Illinois, Donna stayed with our family for about six months while she finished high school. She is the other person still alive who remembers the fire. Donna and I have recently had a couple of conversations about this fire story.

Here’s what I remember about that morning. The television was on. One show I remember watching that day was “The Pinky Lee Show.” My mom was lying on the couch with the flu or a bad cold. That might have explained why she didn’t smell the smoke. But I did. I remember telling my mom that I smelled smoke and I asked her where it was coming from. Her response was that dad and his brother, my Uncle John, who was working for my dad at the time, must be burning something outside.

Not too much later my dad came into the house to help get lunch ready since my mom was not feeling well.

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On that day her illness evidently was something temporary. However, my mom did have some type of heart condition that she was dealing with in her thirties and at one point wasn’t sure she would live long enough for all of us to remember her. There is one picture that we have that was professionally taken of my mom for this reason: that if she died, we would know what she looked like.

In later years my mom told me that during that time my dad—no matter where he was working on the farm—would always come to the house in the mid afternoon for a few minutes. After her health returned and all of us children were older, he finally confessed to her that the reason he came to the house every day was that he didn’t want any of us to come home from school and find her dead. It’s probably a good thing he kept that to himself for as long as he did!

On a few occasions when my mom was in the hospital (we celebrated her 40^th birthday in a hospital room at Boyd Memorial Hospital in Carrollton, IL. My grandma made the cake for her and my brother made sure there were exactly 40 candles on it!), my dad ran the house like he was back in the army. We all had jobs to do and inspections were held before school each day. It was way more regimented than when my mom was “in charge.” In spite of those health problems in her younger years, by God’s’ grace, she lived a relatively healthy life until she died at age 87 years, outliving my dad by nearly twenty years.

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     When my dad entered the house to get ready to fix some lunch for us, he immediately noticed a smoky haze in the rooms and as he made his way toward the living room he asked where the smoke was coming from. He opened the basement door to check. The smoke and flames almost overwhelmed him. He told my mom to call the fire department and he and Donna grabbed all three of us and took us to the car. My mom called the fire department.

At that time, Mrs. Ross Newton was the local telephone operator who worked out of her home in Rockbridge. I was always fascinated to learn that after my mom’s call to the fire department was made, Mrs. Newton -- I’m not exactly sure how she did it -- opened up all the lines on the exchange. This caused all of the phones in Rockbridge to ring, and then she made this announcement to the people: “Basil Price’s house is burning.” People say the tools of communication are better now than then. I don’t know. At least in this case, communication seemed pretty high-tech to me! This simple, effective announcement resulted in many people showing up at the scene of the fire fairly quickly.

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     Another story about our operator, Mrs. Newton: when my sister was a baby, she developed a high fever and went into a convulsion because of it. My mom had never experienced anything like that before and at one point, as my sister became totally limp and unresponsive, my mom thought Debbie had died. My dad assured her she hadn’t. My mom called the doctor. I don’t know if she ever actually talked to the doctor or maybe it was a few minutes before he could be found. In any case, Mrs. Newton, the 911 forerunner, told my mom what to do: put her in warm water and wash her face in cold water (or maybe it was the other way around.) Whichever way it was, my sister regained consciousness and was on the road to recovery. My mom and dad were always grateful for Mrs. Newton. She was a hero. Mayberry’s operator, Sarah, probably could have learned something from our Mrs. Newton!

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After notifying the fire department via our hometown operator, my mom got a few clothes out of the hall closet and then left the house.  My dad went to the dining room and pulled out a drawer from the dining room buffet which contained some insurance policies and some other valuable papers. Then he left the house. A little bit later when some neighbors had come to our aid, a few of them wanted to go in and get more things as the house was burning. My dad begged them not to, but they did manage to get a bedroom suite out of one of the rooms. Besides those few things, everything that we had went up in smoke. And it didn’t take long, either. Within a few minutes after retrieving the bedroom furniture, the house caved in and everything was lost. In the meantime, the fire truck had arrived, but could not save any of the structure.  

My Uncle John had driven us an eighth of a mile or so to our tenant house where he and his family lived. I remember watching him run back to the burning house. I either saw this or I was told a thousand times that Uncle John didn’t stop to climb the fence that separated the two houses. He just jumped over it!

     I do know that I wanted to watch the fire from the tenant house and I was actually standing at a window watching it when our neighbor came along (everyone was gathering quickly to help!) and pulled the shade down so I couldn’t see anything. I still am a bit upset with her for doing that. She thought I would be upset if I saw it! Maybe I’ll get over her doing that to me someday.

     But as for the affect of the fire on our family, (at least on me) we never got over it. That statement sounds negative. There certainly were a lot of negative things about the fire, but there were also some positive aspects of it.

I want to share a few things about the fire and some subsequent events surrounding the fire that have made an impact on me — some lessons, so to speak for which I am grateful.    

fLesson 1f

Providence

     In a word, the first lesson is providence. The Providence of God. Some people might describe these moments of grace as just coincidences or good fortune. But I believe the Providence of God played a role in our experience on March 26, 1955. The dictionary says that providence is “the foreseeing care and guidance of God over the creatures of the earth.” For the fifty some years my mom told about the events of the day, she would always say that if she had not been sick and therefore if my dad had not come in to fix lunch at that particular time, we may not have discovered or been able to react in time to escape the fire. And if she had finally discovered the fire, she would have tried to take the time to put coats and snowsuits on each one of us. She was appalled at first that my dad took us out in nearly zero weather without any coats or hats or gloves, but she soon realized that to do otherwise would have been potentially tragic. Our family experienced that day the “foreseeing care and guidance of God.”

 fLesson 2f

Life

At one point after the fire, the reality of losing virtually everything was sinking in to my mom and dad. My mom said she was crying about what they were going to do. She said something about what her babies were going to do now that everything they had was destroyed. My dad responded, “But we have our babies.”

That simple statement reminded them both that life was the most important thing about this day. And we all came out of this alive. Two adults, a teenager and three children all under 5 were alive! What else mattered?

fLesson 3f

Materialism

With the exception of the clothes all of us were wearing, a few things from the closet and a bedroom suite, nothing was saved from the fire. That night and the next few nights we spent at my Grandma and Grandpa’s house. There was nothing to pack up to go there. We had nothing…”not even toothbrushes,” I heard my mom say on many occasions.

     When you know that accumulated material things can vanish in a matter of minutes, the teaching of Jesus becomes real: "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.” (Matthew 6:19-20)

     Jesus didn’t say anything about fire, but the effect is the same, perhaps even more dramatic. The fire destroyed things very quickly with no time to conserve and/or protect. In a recent conversation with Donna Lewis Hasse, the other remaining eyewitness, she talked about how quickly the house and everything left in it was destroyed.

     My mom confessed that before the fire she was very proud of what she had and what had been accumulated in their early years of marriage. After the fire, she put things in their proper perspective. That value was talked about a lot and handed down to all of us. Remembering the fire and hearing the story reminded us just how very temporary “things” can be. We were encouraged to store up our treasures where Jesus taught us to keep them.

fLesson 4f

Giving

     Most everything that we had – from toothbrushes to furniture – could be and were replaced eventually. However, some things were destroyed that we certainly thought could not be replaced. Family pictures fell into the “irreplaceable” category. So we thought.

     After the fire, some of the extended family members gave us back some of the pictures of our family that we had given them previously. My mom and dad had given away copies of the pictures to great aunts and uncles, great grandparents, and other members of the family. And then as the years went by, and some of those people had died, many of those pictures came back to us. Giving away the pictures proved to be the key to really being able to possess them again. Sharing those “irreplaceable” pictures allowed us to “replace” them!

     Evidently this was not 100% effective. My mom told about some pictures taken of the three of us kids that were so good and cute that she decided that she wasn’t going to give any of them away. She wanted to keep them to herself. Of course, those pictures all burned up in the fire. And of course, there was no way to get copies back because they weren’t shared with anyone else. Nobody knows what those pictures looked like. I’m sure they were great! But we will never know.

     The lesson in all this is that the only “pre-fire” pictures we really had were the ones that had been given away! In a real sense, what we “have” is only that which we have been willing to give.

fLesson 5f

Generosity

     Another lesson related to the last one is that we learned that people are generous. After spending a week at my grandparent’s we were given a house to live in temporarily. It was a house that belonged to a neighbor, Mr. Harlan Edwards. Whenever the story was told of the fire, it would always include the fact that Mr. Edwards let us live in his tenant house rent free. I think my dad tried to pay him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. So for a few months, while a new house was being built on the site of the old one, we lived a couple of miles away in this generous gift.

     In addition, a “shower” was held at our church in Rockbridge. And the generosity of many people made it possible for us to begin to experience some normalcy again.

     That spirit of generosity, the spirit of community is something for which to give thanks to God.

fLesson 6f

Home

     While we were grateful for a house in which to live, that house was not home. A couple of things were told about the time of living in the Edwards’ house that indicates the longing for home is something that is with us from the earliest days of our lives.

     These stories involve my brother and sister. My sister (18 months old at the time) was “just not herself” my mom always said. She wouldn’t get down on the floor to play. She wanted to always be held. She was just not satisfied. My parents thought that maybe if they took her over to where the old house stood it would somehow help. My mom said that Debbie was so excited as they approached the farm and that she could hardly contain her excitement when they turned down the lane. But then when she saw that the house was not there, it was obvious that she knew something was wrong. While we have no idea what was going on in her mind, after she realized “home” was no longer where she thought it was, she became more content. She didn’t need to be held as much. She started to play again.

     The set of clothes that my brother (almost three at the time of the fire) had on when the house burned were the only familiar clothes that he had. Because of the generosity of people, a lot of other clothes had been given to him and to all of us for that matter.

     My brother wore the new clothes that he had received, but when the “survivor” clothes were laid out for him to wear, he was excited! They were like “home” to him. If he had his way, he would have worn them all the time.

     As we mature, we realize that “home” is not buildings or clothes, but there’s something ingrained in us—even before we can articulate it -- about home and the longing to experience and participate in it.

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Restart

     At first, my mom and dad didn’t know whether our landlords, the Curnutts, would want to rebuild. After all, the Curnutts were getting older. Mr. Curnutt was eighty-one at the time of the fire. The house that burned really belonged to them. They sustained the loss of property. Would they rebuild? Would they start over?

     That question was answered pretty quickly. They did rebuild. They had a spirit of adventure about them that caused them to press forward. That spirit was not just evident in the decision to rebuild, but in other ways as well. I remember that Mr. Curnutt bought a new Oldsmobile several years later when he was in his mid nineties. And his only regret was that he didn’t get the top of the line model. It didn’t have all the “bells and whistles” that he had had in other vehicles! (Mr. Curnutt lived to be over 100 years old—I can’t find the year of his death.)

     So a new house was built. Our landlord even listened to a couple of ideas my mom hesitantly suggested about the house and incorporated those ideas into the plan.  

     We were able to begin again. A big reason we were able to do that was because the Curnutt’s looked to the future and all the possibilities that it held.

     One other thought about this. In all of the conversations about the fire, I never heard anyone talk about blame. While the whole event was traumatic, it was made easier by the mutual respect of the landlord and tenant family.

fLesson 8f

Perspective

     As you can tell by now, the fire was a big deal for me and my family. I’ve always wondered what the newspapers reported about the fire at the time. It seems nowadays that house fires of this magnitude are often on the evening news and reported in newspapers or on the internet.

     So a couple of years ago I spent an afternoon in the Carrollton, Illinois, library to see what the local newspaper said about it. I found two articles in the paper. One was an item in the column “Greenfield News”; the other was an item in the column “Rockbridge News”:

“The Rockbridge and Greenfield firemen were called Saturday morning to the farm home of Mr. and Mrs. Basil Price and family, two and one-half miles west of Rockbridge, where fire of undetermined origin destroyed their home. All members of the family were at home when the blaze was discovered in the basement between 10 and 11 a.m., but it had gained such headway that they were unable to check the blaze. Most of their clothing and furniture were destroyed. The damage to the building, owned by E.Z. Curnutt of Carrollton was not estimated. Members of the Price family are staying with relatives.”

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“Fire destroyed the Zeno Curnutt farm residence west of Rockbridge Saturday, occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Basil Price and three small children. The house was totally destroyed and the family lost all furniture and possessions. Friday night a shower was given for the Price family at the Methodist church in Rockbridge. The Price family are residing with relatives.”  

That’s it. I was amazed that something so major to me was summed up in a couple of paragraphs buried in news columns that also contained who ate Sunday dinner with whom and who came to visit later in the afternoon! (These kinds of items are typical small town newspaper “news.”)

 Our fire did not even have a headline of its own. No pictures. No quotes. I was shocked.

     Isn’t it true, though, that we sometimes think that the entire world revolves around us. We forget that others are dealing with their own crisis situations and their own experiences.

     Maybe another lesson the fire teaches me is to be aware of those experiences of others that affect them as deeply as the fire affected me.

For most people in the world (and evidently even in Greene County) our fire did not get top billing. I think it should have! I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.

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Scars

After several years, there were a couple of things that still reminded me and others of the fire. Once in a while I would be mowing weeds in one of our pastures or moving cattle in that pasture when I would see the place where some of the debris from the fire was dumped. Mostly what I saw was a set of concrete steps from the old house that had been taken there. That sight always reminded me of the events in this story. That was one thing.

The other was that for many years a maple tree that was in our front yard was permanently scarred. Up and down the trunk was an obvious, deep scar. It was a wonder that the tree survived. I know the trees on the east side of the house were destroyed in the fire, but this particular one on the west was just scarred.

Sometimes as we sat in the yard in the summer (before air conditioning!), someone who was visiting with us might ask why the maple tree looked the way it did. Then the fire story would be told again. For many years the scarred tree reminded me of the fire and of some the lessons that I have written about.

Fortunately, there were not other scars from the fire. There easily could have been. Maybe that tree and its scar was a reminder of the grace of God. It was a reminder that even though scarred, it continued to live and provide cool shade and enjoyment on a hot day. And it was a reminder that the joy of life has been experienced by all of us in the house that day. Yes life has its scars, and its troubles, but we are to take heart, Jesus who was scarred himself on a tree has overcome those troubles.

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Calling

In one of the articles about the fire from the newspapers referred to above, it mentioned that a shower was held for our family at the Methodist Church in Rockbridge. That church has been a part of our family for a long time. We still have connections to it. Times of spiritual growth have been experienced in that church. Many of its pastors have had major influences on our family. A couple of particular pastors have had a major influence on me. One of them, Rev. John Seed, was pastor there when I was in the membership class. I remember that he said to me after one of the classes, “Dennis, I think God has something special for you to do.” I can still hear him say it.

Another pastor, Rev. Leroy Sanders, was my pastor in high school when I responded to God’s call to preach. Rev. Sanders invited me to deliver my first sermon a couple of months after I graduated from high school. And he was there to listen to it, and to encourage me, too!

I was interested to find out later that the founder of the Methodist movement, John Wesley, had a similar experience as mine. When he was about six, his family’s house in England burned to the ground, too. At the last minute, John was pulled from the burning parsonage. He regarded himself from then on as a “brand plucked from the burning.” That experience, at least in part, motivated him to discover what it was that God wanted him to be and do.

Now I’m not suggesting that I’m equal to John Wesley, but I think subconsciously and maybe even sometimes consciously I wonder if I might also be one who was spared from “the burning” for God’s purpose. It has felt like that. It continues to feel like that. I think it was one of the experiences that contributed to my calling to be a pastor in this “Methodist movement” for the past thirty-nine years.

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 So that’s the story. I share it as best as I remember or have been told. I give God thanks for this “Fire Story.”

    

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[1] I found this information about the Curnutts on a history of Greene County website. They were remarkable people.
E. Z. CURNUTT. On the roster of public officials in Greene county appears the name of E. Z. Curnutt, who is now serving as circuit clerk. He was born in the town of Wrightsville, on the 17th of February, 1874, and is a son of James H. and Angelina (Waltrip) Curnutt, both of whom were also natives of Wrightsville. In the district schools the son began his education at the usual age and was advanced through successive grades until he became a high school student in Greenfield. Later he attended the high school in Carrollton, and was graduated with the class of 1893. On putting aside his text books he entered his father's store in Carrollton, where he remained until 1900. He had, however, been engaged in teaching from 1893 until 1896, having charge of the Rubicon school in the eastern part of Greene county. In 1900 he received the nomination of the Democratic party for the office of circuit clerk and that he was the choice of the public is shown by the fact that he received a good majority at the fall election. His capable service received public endorsement by a second nomination for the office and election in 1904, when he received the largest majority of any candidate on the ticket.

On the 15th of January, 1903, Mr. Curnutt was married to Miss Jessie Achenbach, a native of Greene county and a daughter of Fred Achenbach. She is a graduate of the Illinois Woman's College at Jacksonville. Mr. and Mrs. Curnutt are prominent socially, occupying an enviable position in the regard of many friends in Carrollton. Fraternally Mr. Curnutt is a Master Mason, becoming a member of Carrollton lodge No. 50, A.F. & A.M., in 1898, and he also holds membership relations with Carrollton camp, No. 476, Modern Woodmen of America, Worcester lodge, Knights of Pythias of Roodhouse, the Benevolent Protective Order of Elks at Alton, and Conlee lodge, Ancient Order of United Workmen of Carrollton. He is a young man whose business and political record is creditable and he has the trust and confidence of his fellow men, because of the fidelity which he has ever manifested in his official life.

The Significance of October 1

Today is October 1, 2017.

After 46 years as an active United Methodist Pastor, I am retired as of today. Oh, I officially retired this past July 1, 2017 at the Illinois Great Rivers Annual Conference meeting in Peoria, Illinois. However, Bishop Frank Beard, the Staff-Parish Relations Committee of the Troy United Methodist Church, and the incoming pastor, Rev. Dr. Andy Adams, gave permission for me to serve as Pastor Emeritus during the past three months. During July, August, and September, I helped with the transition of the pastoral change at Troy.

On October 1, 1988, I was appointed pastor of the Troy United Methodist Church by Bishop Woodie White. So when yesterday rolled around, I literally completed 29 full years associated with that congregation! I'm grateful for the unusual opportunity to be at one place for such a long time.

I hoped the three month transition period would be helpful to the new pastor and to the church. I believe it was. But, it was also good for me. Even though I retired in July, I still had some connection to Troy and still spent several days there as a staff member and still had things to do and still knew what was happening with the church.

The three months were up yesterday. Today, I'm really retired!

Now, this October 1 is a new date to remember: my "real" retirement begins! I'm excited to see what unfolds. I'll keep you posted!

As for now, I will just say I'm grateful to God for my calling to serve as a pastor and a messenger of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was a great 46 years!

Harvest Legacy

A few weeks ago, Sharon Price, one of my dad's first cousins, conducted a "Price Legacy" tour. One of the places we visited was Likely Cemetery in Greene County, IL. One of the persons buried in that cemetery is Henry Price. Henry was the first "Price" ancestor to come to America. Born in Germany in  1819, he came to Greene County, Illinois, in the 1840s. He became a United States Citizen on October 29, 1866 -- almost exactly 150 years ago! Sharon was kind enough to give me a copy of his citizenship papers. I was fascinated to note that he had to sign the paper in his original German name: Heinrich Preise. A farmer by occupation, he owned a 380 acre farm at the time of his death in 1900.

Henry was my great-great grandfather. Many of his descendants were also farmers on other farms in Greene County, including my great-grandfather, George, my grandfather, Othel, and my father, Basil. Presently my brother, Greg, is finishing up the 2016 harvest on our Greene County farm.

Which brings me to something that I noticed on Henry's tombstone that made an impression on me. It says this:  "SEED TIME AND HARVEST SHALL NOT CEASE."


This phrase is part of a verse in Genesis 8: “As long as the earth endures, seed time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease.” (verse 22)

Some years the harvest has been good; some years the harvest has not been good. In some wet years seed time is a challenge; some times it is easier to get all the seeds in the ground in a timely manner. This year, the harvest is abundant. However, we give thanks for the harvest in all years.

Farming techniques have dramatically changed in my life-time -- it would be almost impossible for Henry to fathom the changes since he was around. But a few things have not changed---farmers plant the seeds; farmers harvest the grain, but God makes it possible for the basic process to happen: the seed sprouts and grows; all by itself the soil produces the grain. (Some phrases from Jesus' teaching in Mark 4.)

I don't know too much more about my great-great grandfather, Henry. I am impressed and grateful that he reminded me (as I looked at his tombstone) in the midst of Harvest 2016 that "seed time and harvest shall not cease." That promise has outlasted him and will outlast us "as long as the earth endures!" Thanks be to God.

"Consulting My Own Preference"

While reading a biography of President James Garfield (Destiny of the Republic, by Candice Millard), I was struck by this comment he made:  "I did not feel it right to consult my own preference in such a case."


Here's the story around that statement. In 1862, James Garfield was a Brigadier General in the Union Army. He also had been elected to congress. However, he did not take his congressional seat until a year or so later when President Abraham Lincoln asked him to (he was still actively serving in the military).


Here's what Garfield said, "I have resigned my place in the army and have taken my seat in Congress. I did this with regret, for I had hoped not to leave the field till every insurgent state had returned to its allegiance. But the President told me he dared not risk a single vote in the House and he needed men in Congress who were practically acquainted with the wants of the army. I did not feel it right to consult my own preference in such a case."


In light of a call of God on our lives; in light of the mission of the church that Jesus has given us; in light of the hurts and hopes of people around us, do we "consult [our] own preferences"?  Or in such cases as these do we have the courage to say "I [do] not feel it right to consult my own preference"?


This little story from James Garfield's life was an encouragement to me. How about you?

A Poem I Wrote this Afternoon

Once in a while we should just say thank you to those who help make disciples of Jesus Christ…

Thanks to the adults who work with youth,

Who live out the gospel and share the truth.

Thanks to the groups whose music inspires us,

And propels us to live as Jesus requires us.

Thanks to the teachers who teach young and old,

The stories of Jesus, rehearsed and retold.

Thanks to the team who cuts the grass,

Who cares for the mowers and buys the gas.

Thanks to people who sacrificially give,

Money invested that will eternally live.

Thanks to the servants – behind the scene saints,

Who serve, and love people minus complaints.

Thanks be to God for his Son, Christ Jesus,

Who has come to the world in order to free us!

(c)2015 Dennis D Price