Author: Phil Ward

Complete this sentence: “If you get bucked off the horse…”

“Get back on,” right? “If you get bucked off, get back on!”

Well, I am a living embodiment of that saying. No, literally, I have fallen off, been bucked off, dumped off, scraped off, rolled over on, and in every other way imaginable separated from my seat on that proverbial horse. And I have had to get back on.

It actually started with ponies.

I can’t remember Granddads place without ponies. It seemed like there were always a bunch of them, mostly of the Shetland variety. An elderly neighbor lady once asked Granddad: “Lindsey, why do you keep so darn many ponies?”

“Why Mrs. Busby,” Granddad replied, “I keep those ponies so my neighbors have something to talk about!”

I don’t remember Mrs. Busby being overly impressed with that answer.

I think Granddad kept those ponies because they reminded him of the days when he farmed and logged with teams of draft horses like Barney and Luke, and Pat and Dan. In fact, with the help of a neighbor he built pony sized carts, buggies, wagons, and even a chariot for his Shetland teams to pull.

But of course, these were not just pulling ponies, they were riding ponies too, and it was my job and that of my sister Susan to ride the darn things. And that was often easier said than done.

Every horse needs a rider with the expertise and ability to guide its development as a saddle animal. This is especially true of Shetland ponies whose strength, endurance, durability, intelligence, and stubbornness per pound are unsurpassed. These ponies were developed as tough little beasts of burden in the Shetland Isles and those on the Ward place ran true to their genetic code.

The problem was, none of the adults in our family, with the rare exception of Dad, would lower themselves to sitting astride these critters long enough to impart any meaningful training or discipline. That left the job to Susan and me.

I think Susan would readily admit that her task was significantly easier than mine. She was assigned “Black Beauty”, a good-natured, well-mannered, pony with a black coat and white forehead star. I on the other hand was given “Cricket” to raise and train. Cricket looked nothing like a cricket–she had been named for a jet-black family pony from generations past, but was actually an attractive fawn and white mix of colors. As nice as she looked, she was tough as nails and not overly fond of children, particularly ones with the audacity to climb up onto her back. In fact it seemed like one of her life goals was to ensure that my tenure as her rider was a short as possible, every time I swung into the saddle.

Over time she proved extremely creative as to the form her efforts took to unseat me. Classic bucking was of course a favorite, but she also enjoyed rearing up on her hind legs. If I failed to slide out of the saddle while her nose was pointed skyward she would often throw herself over backward in an attempt pin me between the saddle and the ground. She came close to success a couple of times but eventually I learned that to keep a horse from rearing you gave it its head and squeezed forward with your heels. So, she moved on to what was for me the most terrifying tactic of all—the dreaded cherry tree scrape-off.

Granddads primary farm crop was tree fruit—sweet and tart cherries and Italian prunes. The farm, really, was one big orchard and the rows between the trees made a fine place to work a horse, except when that horse was an iron-jawed pony like Cricket.

Cricket seemed to know instinctively that unseating a rider was as simple as using good behavior to lull him or her into a relaxed state of being, then making a mad dash toward the nearest low hanging tree limb.

Most of the time I was quick enough to grab a rein and pull her away from the tree, or just throw myself to the side and miss the oncoming branch. On this particular day, though, she caught me full on in the chest with a thick cherry limb. Rather than lifting me up and off the horse for a quick trip to the ground, this limb pressed me down into the saddle bending me back and scraping across my upper torso, neck and head as Cricket continued her flight to freedom. Thankfully my boots came free of the stirrups and I fell to the ground after we cleared the tree.

I’m not sure how long it was until Granddad found me. He was holding my horse by the reins and kneeling beside me as I lay stunned, in the soft dirt beneath the tree. My shirt was torn, and from chest to forehead were scrapes, cuts and bruises. My back hurt where it had been wrenched over the cantle of the saddle. Granddad helped me to my feet and gave me a quick once over looking for broken bones and other serious damage. Then he said sympathetically: “Son, we’re going to take you up to the house in a minute and let Granny fix you up, but before we do you’ve got to get back on this horse.”

I must have had a stricken expression on my face because he bent down, looked at me intently and said: “If you don’t get back on now you will have to fight this same battle with Cricket every time you ride her. You’ll be afraid of her and you’ll both know it.”

I nodded and turned to the pony. Granddad helped me into the saddle and handed me the reins. We made an uneventful circuit around the orchard; Cricket, evidently having had her fun for the day, was pretty cooperative. When we got back to where Granddad stood he took the reins and led the pony and I up to the back porch where Granny waited with a word of comfort, and bandages.

I’ve come off a lot of horses in the years since, both literally and metaphorically. For better or worse, I’ve always seemed to be able to climb back on.

I guess I can credit Cricket and Granddad for that.

It seemed like every spring a mama cat would find a snug place in Granddads barn and deposit a litter of kittens. These mamas were of the mostly wild (feral) variety and often stayed just long enough to wean and train their offspring. Usually by early summer they and their broods disappeared into the world of farm fields and mice, until winter weather made living in proximity to people more tolerable. That changed when Granddad took to feeding them on a regular basis. Then generations of cats would literally line up at the back porch every morning waiting for him to come out of the house, pull on his boots, and head to the barn to feed the livestock, and them.

Truth is Granddad liked having those cats around. They kept the mice at manageable levels in the barn and could be pretty friendly while waiting for breakfast. It made quite a picture to see him in his canvas barn coat, rubber boots and floppy red hat, trudging down the lane at feeding time with a half dozen or more cats trailing close behind—a genuine pied piper with his own group of dedicated supplicants.

The key to domesticating a feral cat is to capture and gentle it young enough so that it hasn’t fully developed that innate fear of people, and isn’t yet strong enough to punish you severely with its teeth and claws. This particular spring our sons, Peter, and Patrick, probably around 10 and 8 years of age, along with Ricky, a neighbor boy, decided to capture and domesticate some cats. They had been keeping an eye on a new litter in Granddads barn, waiting for the kittens to be old enough to get along without their mama. After consulting Granddad and no doubt getting some pointers on cat capturing, they decided it was time. Early Saturday morning they appropriated several large grocery sacks from the pantry, and hopped their bikes for the half-mile ride down to the farm, stopping to collect Ricky along the way.

The boys made it back to our house a couple hours later. They had straw sticking out of their clothes every which way and a few scratches on their hands and arms, but they were grinning from ear to ear. Each was holding a squirming paper sack containing a kitten, which they proudly unveiled one by one. Peter had selected a tawny shorthair with big green eyes. Patrick clutched a powder gray with long hair and a white chest. Ricky had picked a kitten similar to Patricks’ except it was black with four white feet. We admired each one in turn and and nodded along as the boys excitedly recounted the story of the hunt and capture. After they finished Ricky returned his cat to its sack and headed home, anxious to show his own family.

It wasn’t long before we noticed our youngest, 6 year old Prisha, crying quietly in a corner of the family room. “What’s wrong Honey?” her mom asked. “I wanted a kitty too,” she blurted out, bursting into full scale weeping. “I wanted a kitty too”.

“Oh no,” I thought. “Were there any others,” I asked Peter. “Yeah,” he answered, “but the mama cat was hiding them as we left. I don’t think we can find them again”.

A few seconds passed, then Peter took a deep breath, held out his kitten to his sister and said: “Here, you can have mine.”

Shaking her head she replied tearfully: “I don’t want yours, I wanted the one with the white feet. I wanted the one with socks.”

Now here was a problem because “Socks” had just departed with Ricky, destined to join another family. Prisha, in heartbreaking 6 year-old fashion, continued to weep quietly in the corner completely unresponsive to our efforts to console her.

It was some time before we noticed Peter was gone. Prisha had quit crying by then and was sitting on the porch next to Patrick, petting his kitten now named Shadow. She looked up with the rest of us to see Peter pedaling into the driveway. He had his cat sack in hand. Wordlessly he dropped his bike to the ground, walked up to his little sister and handed her the sack. “Here” he said solemnly.

Taking the sack carefully she held it in her lap and opened it, peering inside. “Socks!” she exclaimed with delight, reaching in to pull out a squirming black and white fluff ball. “Socks,” she repeated looking quizzically up at her brother. “She’s yours,” he said. “I traded Ricky.”

“Oh,” she replied wonderingly, returning her gaze to the kitten.

Socks and Shadow soon became indispensable family members. They were friendly, responsive cats that even came when you called them (occasionally). But to me the most significant event of that day was not about cats. It was about watching a boy exchange his interests for those of his little sister.

That was a moment of grace.

Authors note: These stories are presented to the best of my recollection or as they were told me by the principals. The names are occasionally changed to “protect the innocent”.

We all have them—those moments in childhood that frame our thinking for the years ahead; those things that stick in our memory and become a part of who we are. One of those for me was the day Granddad met Mr. Lopez.

It was a typical Oregon winter day—grey, windy, and wet, with the rain pelting down sideways. Granddad was out working in the machine shed– a long three-sided building open to the elements on the east with an overhanging roof that kept the weather from reaching the farm equipment inside.

The task for the day was servicing tractors and Granddad was on his back underneath the International when he heard someone clearing their throat as if to catch his attention. Surprised, he crawled out to find a Hispanic man, hat in hand, standing just inside the drip-line of the roof. “Good morning Mr. Ward” the man said slowly in heavily accented English, “My name is Frank Lopez”.

When Granny and Granddad built the “new house,” they built it just across the lane from a small place owned by Grannies’ good friend and her husband. These neighbors, however, perhaps motivated by the Wards new home or the proximity of the Wards themselves, eventually decided to build one of their own a little ways up the road. That left the house and two acres next to Granny and Granddad vacant.

It was this property that was on Mr. Lopez’ mind when he walked into the machine shed that day.

“Mr. Ward” he continued respectfully, my family would like to move to the house next to you,” he said, motioning that direction with his hat, “but, I wanted to know,” and here he paused, “are you OK to live close to Mexicans?”

A look of mild surprise crossed Granddads’ face and there was a long pause while he used a shop rag to wipe the oil and grease from his fingers. When he got them clean he shook his head slowly, looked up, and stuck out his hand. With a slight grin and in typical Granddad fashion he said: “Mr. Lopez, if you can stand living next to us, we can darn sure stand living next to you”.

Mr. Lopez took the offered hand and nodded, as the two men stood quietly for a moment, eye to eye. Then he replaced his hat and headed back out into the weather.

And that was that.

When the Lopez family moved in a few weeks later, Granddad helped unload their rigs. Granny baked a “welcome to the neighborhood” pie. In my observation, it didn’t matter a bit what their surname was, the color of their skin, or where they hailed from. They were just a family moving in next door.

The Lopez family lived on that place next to Granny and Granddad for a number of years. They were good neighbors. Mr. Lopez would help Granddad on the farm when the need arose. Granddad always worked up their garden plot in the spring. My sister and I rode the school bus with their kids.

Eventually the family moved on, and we ultimately lost track of them. But I am thankful for the time we spent as neighbors, and for one unsophisticated farmers response to a question no man should ever have to ask.

As he moved into his 90’s, and particularly after Granny passed, Granddad finally began to fail physically. He was a man whose life had pretty much revolved around physical activity and I know it was frustrating to be relegated to an existence tied mostly to his chair in the living room. As much as it pained him, he now had to leave the farming to others. We all pitched in, but as the family members living closest, that work usually fell to me and my sons.

One early spring Saturday I was working in the orchard bordering Granddads house, cutting up a couple downed trees that had finally succumbed to old age and years of machine picking. I grumbled a little as I worked because there were a million things calling for my attention that day, and I needed to get this job done and move on. I was buzzing up the larger limbs for firewood and bunching the small stuff for the tractor to carry off to the burn pile when I noticed Granddad inching down the front porch steps, leaning on his cane, and heading my way.

I shut off the chainsaw and straightened up to watch as he slowly navigated to where I was working. On his face was that “none-too-pleased” expression he usually wore when a job was not being done to his standards.

“You’re wasting wood,” he said as he approached. “What do you mean?” I replied, pointing at the neatly sawn pile of cherry at my feet. “You are wasting wood,” he said again, stabbing his cane into one of my brush piles. “You need to cut up those smaller branches, they’ll burn good.”

Having raised and fed a family through the Great Depression, the old adage of “waste not, want not” took on almost biblical proportions in Granddads’ thinking. However, as a busy professional, I understood the importance of efficient use of time.

“It’s not worth it”, I shook my head and reasoned. “You don’t get enough wood for the time it takes to cut it”.

Granddad stopped and looked at me like I was a creature from outer space. “Give me the saw” he held out his hand and said. “What?” I replied. “Give me the saw,” he repeated as he stepped forward to take it.

I handed it over slowly and as he took it the weight of the saw surprised him, nearly pulling him to the ground. Undeterred he straightened up, flipped the appropriate switches and pulled the starter cord. It didn’t start. He tried again; it didn’t start. He tried again—no luck. He just couldn’t get enough pull on the rope to get the engine to kick off.

Clearly disgusted, he handed me back the saw and said: “Start it for me.” What happened next was the first and only time I can ever recall speaking back to my Granddad. “If you can’t start it, you can’t use it,” I replied.

A look of disbelief crossed his face and I felt a quick pang of remorse. With a loud “Hurrumph!” he turned on his heel and headed back to the house, stabbing his cane into the soft dirt with every step.

I watched for a minute then started the saw and turned back to my work, reaching into the brush pile and pulling out the small branches I had discarded earlier.

They did burn good.

During our daughters’ freshman year at Oregon State the dogs she had grown up with here on the place died. Cinder and Bruiser were both old by then and passed of natural causes. Nonetheless it was troubling for the young college student to come home for a weekend visit and not find them waiting to greet her with tails wagging. So troubling in fact, that she began suggesting that home didn’t really feel like home without a couple of big, happy, dogs patrolling the premises.

On the farm we’d always had dogs. Big dogs, mostly of the Lab/Shepherd variety, though Granddad had a penchant for lap dogs that would cuddle up with him in front of the TV in the evening.  Cinder and Bruiser were both Shepherd crosses that had spent long and happy lives as friends and protectors to our family and farmstead. However, with their passing, my wife and I were kind of enjoying being dog-less for first time in many years. It soon became apparent those days were numbered.

One Saturday afternoon about half-way into the school year our daughter showed up and asked if I would join her in a visit to the local animal shelter, just to see what kind of dogs might be available—no adopting, you know, just looking to see what the possibilities were. So began a regular practice of father/daughter shelter visits to see if there was anybody who “really needed” to be rescued that week.

Now I don’t know whether you have spent any time visiting animal shelters but each trip felt a bit like a visit to a torture chamber to me. Don’t get me wrong, the shelter was great—clean, well lit, with caring, friendly staff, but being confronted with all those wagging tails and earnest faces, each seeming to say “pick me, pick me,” was not my idea of fun. For several months I was able to resist bringing anyone home, but by the time we got to our third visit I had concluded the daughter was not giving up. And, on that visit we met Huck and Finn.

Huck and Finn were two male, Chocolate Labradors, about a year old. They had been picked up while running loose in a neighborhood on the south end of town. No owner could be found. Huck was stocky and gregarious with a light reddish coat. He came right up to the gate to say “Hello”. Finn was slender with dark chocolate coloring and a reserved, shy, manner. He hid behind Huck. It was obvious to my daughter that the two were a pair–if not brothers then close comrades who could not be separated.  Before I knew it they were both in the truck and we were headed for home. On the way out the door one of the shelter staff commented under her breath, “Two Chocolates at one time, they must be nuts”.  Little did we know…

Chocolate Labs are a high-energy dog. If you don’t find things to keep them busy, they will–often in ways you won’t like.  Chewing, digging and attempts to “see the world” without supervision are common manifestations of that energy. Soon my carefully manicured lawn looked like a war zone, pock marked with miniature foxholes dug by flying dog feet. It seemed like everything that could be appropriated for chewing was: gloves, sneakers, work boots, shovel handles, vegetation, and all manner of hoses. My wife’s newly planted rhododendrons were cleanly cropped off at ground level and several young blueberry bushes suffered the same fate. One 50’ garden hose was neatly chewed into 3-5 foot sections. My spot sprayer was “de-hosed” in a similar manner, and even the tractor hydraulic system showed signs of enthusiastic gnawing. The final indignity, however, was when I came home one day to find my pickup truck mud flaps completely chewed off. And while the perpetrators of this crime hung their heads in shame when confronted with the evidence, they went back to chewing happily as soon as my back was turned.

Despite these serious character flaws, Huck and Finn wormed their way into our hearts in short order. They were always friendly, affectionate and even pretty obedient after a bit of training. They eventually grew out of the digging and chewing phase and we quit having to hide hoses and shoes. Their favorite activity was to join my wife on a bike ride on the farm roads leading down to the river. Paroxysms of joy would follow the mere mention of the words “bike” and “ride”.

Over the years Huck and Finn became integral parts of the family. They were a big hit as enthusiastic greeters for our daughters’ college graduation party and for her cherry orchard wedding a couple years later.

Finn died of cancer two years ago and is buried under the walnut tree next to Cinder and Bruiser.  Huck, suffering from bad hips, can no longer keep up with the bikes and spends most of his day lounging on a big pillow in the family room. He has been joined by another adoptee, a year-old Chocolate named Bella, who, in his opinion, has way too much energy. We are back to hiding hoses and shoes.

Huck and Bella were around for the birth of both our daughters’ daughters.  I look forward to the day those girls convince their folks to take them to visit a shelter, just in case there’s someone there who might “really need” rescuing.

Granddad was always partial to horses, particularly to the draft horse teams the family farmed with when he was growing up. One of his favorites was a rangy pair of Percherons named Barney and Luke. An unmatched team, one a grey and one a black, Barney and Luke were willing workers who excelled at both farming and logging. Granddad always claimed that his older brother Everett (whom he gave credit for being the better teamster) could “pull anything loose on both ends” with old Barney and Luke.

As Granddad told it, during their teen years when summer harvest on the home place was finished, he and Everett often hired out to larger operations with Barney and Luke, to help finish up the grain threshing. An older neighbor, “Tex” Roberts, who occasionally did the same with his own team, had a fine looking pair of Belgians. According to Tex, his Belgians could “out-pull that Ward team without breaking a sweat.” This affront to Barney and Lukes’ abilities incensed Everett, especially as Tex could never find the time to make his team available for a head to head pulling match.

One August the Ward boys and their team and Tex and his were both working for a nearby outfit. Tex was driving water wagon for the steam thresher. He was filling it from the Lukiamute River when he hit an unseen hole in the riverbed and stuck the wagon fast. Try as they might his team was unable to pull it out and eventually Everett was sent with Barney and Luke to help.

When Everett arrived, Tex was standing on the riverbank, waiting, his team chest deep in water and the wagon sunk up to the floorboards. He brusquely instructed Everett to get Barney and Luke hitched up in front of his team, and to use the four horses together to pull the wagon free. Everett, however, after all the slights to Barney and Luke, was having none of that. Without batting an eye, he pronounced that if Tex wanted that wagon pulled out he was going to have to wade back in and unhitch his horses so Barney and Luke could show him what a real team could do. As you can imagine, Tex was not happy with this pronouncement, but after a bit of back and forth shouting he waded in and unhitched the Belgians.

With the unfettered confidence of youth, Everett backed his pair up to the wagon, slid off of Barney’s back down into the water and hitched up. From there he climbed into the wagon seat, glanced over at Tex with a grin and clucked to his team. Barney and Luke found their footing, strained briefly, and with a couple of lurches pulled the wagon out of the hole and onto the bank.

Later that night over dinner, Everett gleefully recounted the story of Barney and Lukes’ triumph to the family, oblivious to the color rising in his fathers’ face. “You darn kid”, he said, what would you have done if they hadn’t been able to pull that wagon out?” Slowly, and with some chagrin, Everett replied: “Well, I guess I never thought of that.”

“ I guess not” was the response.

Horse shows can be trying events for both horse and rider, and a fair amount of nervous energy can pass between the two in the run-up to show time. With Dandy, that nervousness seemed to manifest in the need to buck a bit before entering the show ring. Through long experience, Patrick had learned to tack up well before the start of his first class and work the kinks out of his horse in the lanes and corrals outside the arena. Dandy would often crow hop a bit as part of the process, but after 20-30 minutes of pre-show exercise he would usually settle down and do his work in a more or less civilized fashion.

On this particular show day, however, Dandy was a model citizen from the moment he walked out of the horse trailer. He stood quietly, ground-tied, while Patrick gave him a good brushing, checked his feet, and eased on his saddle, bridle, and breast collar. The pre-show warm up was uneventful as well, without a buck, hop, or unwanted act of any kind. In fact, Dandy was walking, trotting, loping, stopping and backing with such proficiency that Patrick was thinking this was a trophy day for sure.

When it was time for the first class (Western Pleasure) Patrick eased Dandy into the show ring, right behind his friend Jay and Jays’ quarter horse mare, Link. Dandy and Link were stable mates and show buddies of long standing, and where one went the other usually followed.

It was a large class, well over 20 horses, and at the judges’ direction they spread out into a slow walk around the ring. As he moved in behind Link, Patrick noticed Dandy beginning to bunch a bit, but he eased him forward and he settled in with the rest of the class.

That lasted until the judge asked the group for a trot. As Patrick picked up the reins and attempted to squeeze Dandy into the new gait he dropped his head, stiffened his legs and burst into an enthusiastic bout of crow hopping. This soon turned into full-fledged bucking, as around the arena they went, inside the circle of horses trying to carry on with the class.

By the time Patrick and Dandy were halfway around the show ring the crowd in the stands was on its feet cheering. From where I stood those cheers became a roar as Patrick stayed aboard all the way around, while Dandy bucked and fishtailed like a certified bronc.

As Patrick and Dandy approached their original starting point, in an act of true friendship Jay eased Link out from among the other horses and into the path of the oncoming duo. When Dandy saw Link parked in his way it was like a switch flipped. He quit bucking, and settled docilely in beside him.

The crowd continued to cheer and applaud as Patrick turned hopefully toward the judge, who stood in the center of the arena with arms folded and just the hint of a smile on his face. The pavilion quieted as it waited to see what he would do with the wayward pair. Without hesitation the judge pointed to the show ring gate, and Patrick nodded and headed his horse out of the arena to a smattering of renewed applause.

The last thing I remember as I made my way out of the stands was the class resuming as if nothing had happened–young riders moving around the show ring to the commands of the judge. I couldn’t say for sure, but I think Jay and Link won that class. I hope so; they deserved it.

When our son, Patrick, was old enough to begin showing horses in 4-H, his Granddad presented him with a 5-year old Appaloosa gelding named Dandy. A roan with a snowflake blanket over his hips, Dandy was an intelligent, athletic, horse with just a hint of the Roman nose and wispy tail prevalent in the old-style Appaloosa bloodlines.

The thing that set Dandy apart, however, was his personality. He could be friendly and affectionate, lowering his head to Patrick’s 10-year old shoulder and nudging him until he nearly fell over, but he also had an independent and impatient streak that could surface unexpectedly and at the most inconvenient moments.

It was this combination of characteristics that always made taking Dandy into a show ring an adventure.

One of the classes at which Dandy generally excelled was “Showmanship”. In this event the young exhibitors would march into the ring on foot with their horses next to them on a lead line.  The pair would then be required to follow a series of commands from the show judge designed to indicate how well the horse responded with its rider on the ground and only a rope affixed to the halter for control.

On this particular day it was evident that Dandy was “on” from the moment he and Patrick walked into the ring. Responsive to Patricks every soft cluck and twitch on the lead, Dandy walked, trotted, stopped, backed, and set up flawlessly. With ears pricked forward and near eye glued to his young master, Dandy was the picture of a responsive, well-trained horse.  He and Patrick soon found themselves at the head of the show order while the judge walked up and down the line placing the rest of the class.

After some time standing still in the hot August sun, however, Dandy began to tire of the whole exercise. Figuring he had performed long enough he began to fidget and throw his head. Keeping an eagle eye on the judges’ location, Patrick would correct the horse with a tug on the lead and whispered admonition to settle down. This worked for a couple of intervals but finally as if to say: “this has gone on long enough” Dandy stamped a front hoof, bared his teeth, and reached forward and bit Patrick on the upper left chest.

Now I’m not certain how many of you have been bitten by a horse, but it is a painful experience. From the bleachers I could see but not hear the involuntary gasp leave Patricks’ lips as he struggled to maintain his composure. Dandy settled neatly back into his stance, evidently satisfied he had made his point. His face a mask of determination, Patrick set his horse up and turned to face the judge. It was then I noticed the blood beginning to soak through his shirt.

Busy at the far end of the line, the judge had not witnessed this series of events. Soon he finished his work and stepped back to acknowledge the winners. The first number called was Patricks, and as he led Dandy forward to collect his prize he moved his free hand up to cover the dark spot on his shirt. If the judge noticed he didn’t say anything. As the ribbon girl handed him the purple champion rosette Patrick nodded and smiled grimly, and then he and Dandy double-timed it out of the arena to where appropriate comfort and first aid awaited.

Stay tuned for part 2!

A wonderful thing has happened over the last few years—my wife and I have become grandparents. And not just once, but three times. Seems like the Ward clan is suddenly taking seriously the biblical admonition to “be fruitful and multiply”.

Having grandkids around has gotten me thinking a bit about my own Granddad. He was 97 when he died and has been gone for over a decade, but his influence still looms large in my life.

Granddad grew up on the farm that his folks established on the rich bottomland bordering the Willamette River. My father was born on that farm and my wife and I raised our children on it. Sometimes on a sunny morning I just stand on the front porch and soak it all in—the quiet, the scenery, the heritage. It’s that heritage that I am most thankful for.

I wish everyone could have a granddad like mine. He never really talked about values, but there never was any uncertainty about what his were to those who knew him. He never talked about working hard, but he was the hardest-working man I’ve ever known. He never preached about family loyalty, but every time there was a need, he was the first one there to make sure it was met.

Granddad was not an educated man; he left school after eighth grade graduation to work in the logging camps and help support the family, but his three children hold six college degrees among them. He was not an eloquent man, but the things he said were always consistent with the things he did. He was not a rich man, but even in hard times, he always had enough to care for his own and some to share.

He did many different things in his lifetime. He farmed, he logged, he rafted logs on the Willamette River never knowing how to swim; he drove truck. He did what was necessary. When my father was a boy, Granddad bargained with him that if he didn’t smoke or drink until his 18^th birthday, he would buy him a new car. When that day came, Granddad had to sell several cows to make it happen, but Dad had his new car.

When there was a hard, unpleasant, or dangerous job to do, Granddad was always willing to do it. I clearly remember helping him build a new machine-shed as a 19 –year-old college student. He was in his 70’s and I tried in vain to get him to let me finish up the high parts of that slick metal roof. As he motioned me down to the ground he winked and said: “Son, mine is pretty much behind me; yours is all ahead.”

Though he never thought of it in these terms, he was a good steward of the land. His motivations were more practical than environmental, but he had a good sense of what was needed to keep the farm from washing down the river. He kept a thick buffer of brush and trees between the river and his cropland to ensure that his orchards never got the brunt of the high water.

One of the many things I have appreciated about living and working among rural people is that there are many who remind me of my Granddad. People who hold those values of hard work, loyalty, integrity, and generosity that we all treasure. Good people, engaged in the business of making a living, raising a family, and contributing their values to society in manners small and great.

And society needs those values. It needs the values of those who have had to meet a payroll, bring in a crop before the weather hits, and face creditors after a bad harvest. Society needs the values of those who are found more often doing than saying. Values like those held by my Granddad.

Granddad. It’s not a very sophisticated moniker. But it’s what my grandkids are already learning to call me. I will proudly be Granddad to them in honor of the man I called by that name. I can only hope that someday they will remember me as I remember him.