Relationship – Family, Friends

Dad…One of a Kind

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Oh how I miss him so.

Dad’s Eulogy – I wrote and then read my Dad’s eulogy. Writing it, and re-reading it periodically continues to be therapeutic for me as I face all the stages of grief, which by the way, appear when I least expect them. As I was re-reading it to myself today, I decided I wanted to share what a wonderful person he was with the public.

February 27, 2024, St. Dennis Church, Hopewell Jct, NY. 12533

Dad…One of a kind! 

  • As I look around the church, I see a room full of people who have their own Vince stories – and if you are blessed enough to have your own Vince story, you’ll know what I mean when I say you always wanted to have him on your side. 
  • Dad was a devoted husband to mom, the love of his life. He loved our immediate and extended family, and his many dear friends. He went out of his way to work really hard for our family, and helped us with whatever he could whenever we asked. He adored his grandchildren – Christopher, Stefanie, Vincent and Raymond. And in later years, he loved to hear the stories about and watch the antics of his great-grandchildren, Maddie, Logan, Eli, Lily, Peyton, Otto, and Cole. Dad loved his son-in-laws, too – Bruce and his cooking, and Howard and his chickens and gardens.
  • His quick wit, humor, sarcastic tongue, and funny stories were unmatched. Dad was God fearing and respecting, honest, trustworthy, loyal, rational –  a man of high integrity. He had the unique ability to have a consistent overall demeanor of being calm and gentle, and at the same time having a big presence, wherever he was.
  • He had his ‘only him’ way of putting a comical spin to his different philosophies on life. About the medical field, he’d say, “I’m not going to another doctor. Every time you go, they always find something wrong that keeps you going back. So why start!?” 
  • If you did business with dad, even if it was him being the patient in a doctors office, he made you work. He appreciated people more when they could talk and share things about daily life. It was important for him to have person-to-person connections. When he first met one of his recent doctors, he wasn’t a fan. He came out of the office humorously commenting, “I feel like I just went through my first year at medical school. I don’t really like him. I’m not going back.”  During the second, persuaded visit, Dad started chatting with the doctor about mowing his lawn. Well, low-and-behold, the doctor also loved to mow his lawn. The conversation veered toward collecting and rebuilding old cars and trucks. The doctor also had a car he was rebuilding. Then all of a sudden they were sharing ideas of how to cook the Thanksgiving turkey.  After that, the doctor was okay in dad’s eyes. Dad was even caught admitting on his own, “I’m kinda enjoying my trips to see him.” That’s just one tiny, recent story about the life-long lessons we learned from him – this one was people usually just want a human, common connection, and then they can get down to business.  
  • Dad was always respected for being a problem solver in the most logical, pragmatic, and positive of ways. He liked things to be done efficiently – done right the first time.You could count on him for help or advice with most anything in life. Sometimes his help was solicited, and sometimes it wasn’t. If he saw something wrong or that he didn’t approve of, he’d often comment right away. But, then that was that, and the conversation would move forward  One of my favorites of dad’s many sayings was when he stated, in that logical tone, you know – you can picture it  – with his hands slightly raised in the air, with his head moving slightly while looking you straight in the eyes, questioning, “Why are you doing it that way? You might be better off to…” and he’d then go into a quick detail of how to work through most any situation, be it mechanical, anything to do with a home, a business, property, political issues; he was usually spot on.
  • We’ve heard many stories over the years, and actually to this day we are still hearing about Dad quietly helping others in need. He had a huge heart, especially if he knew you needed help or were in pain. He didn’t need recognition for those good deeds, he just quietly did them and moved on in his day. He respected hard workers, and honest, kind people.That’s the kind of person he was. 
  • From the age of 16, Dad belonged to the Beekman Fire Department; a lifetime member. He really enjoyed his time there serving the community, and the social life that came along with it. He held almost all of the officer positions,and lastly was a commissioner for a number of years.  He was one of the main members who was instrumental in getting the current fire house built years ago. You could hear his pride whenever he spoke about belonging to that wonderful organization.  
  • Dad was a model of working hard and playing hard. He and mom shared an awesome life together. They worked as a team, from when they were teenagers and for 67 years – 2 years dating and 65 married. They worked together with all that they did, always running thoughts and opinions by each other. They were each part of running successful businesses. Sometimes life was not at all easy for them, yet they persevered and were able to make do in a pinch. As years passed, they were very blessed to be able to reap the rewards from their hard work. 
  • In the late 50’s and early 60’s, Dad was Franklin D. Roosevelt Jr’s farm manager, on his Clove Creek Farm in Poughquag. A perk of the job was being able to live in a farm-hand house on the property.  So dad had a first hand, daily view of the life of the Roosevelts. He was full of funny and interesting stories about them and their many guest’s comings and goings. He even met Jacki O.  there.  
  • In 1965, Dad left his Clove Creek Farm manager job to start his own construction company. 
  • That’s when he and a couple of partners started Clove Excavators – with just a backhoe. He worked unbelievably hard for about 45 years, growing that business into a fine success often with  40 – 50 employees, and so many pieces of huge equipment – backhoes, loaders, excavators, graders, dump trucks – 10 and 18 wheelers, bulldozers, pavers, compactors, and so much more. I listed these because dad was able to buy, operate, repair or rebuild all of these different types of equipment. That’s amazing! 
  • Clove Excavators built roads, bridges, worked with developers, businesses, and municipalities. He made thousands of connections with people from all walks of life, all over the Hudson Valley, in Dutchess, Westchester, Putnam, Orange, and Ulster Counties. He had a bent for knowing exactly what to do at a construction site. On the rare occasion he didn’t have an answer, he was not too proud to seek the advice of a trusted resource. Wendy, Darrell, Christopher, Stefanie, and I each had the opportunity of working for him at Clove Excavators in different roles at different times over the years. I worked in his office during high school summers – and I got to see first hand all that he did, all that he knew, and all that he handled. He was smart and great at it; a perfect model of how someone can be super successful in a trade. 
  • When dad started Clove Excavators, we moved from the farm-hand house on the Roosevelt property to the beautiful 1804 colonial on Gardner Hollow Road. Dad’s home and property became his pride and joy.  After long hard days at work, he’d come home and work just as hard perfecting his garden and mowing his lawn. Over time, the garden phased out, but he upped his lawn-mowing game when he eventually purchased his John Deere Zero Turn. He had a specific  height and a specific direction he wanted every blade of grass to be, even if that meant lightly trimming the grass, every day to achieve perfection. Mowing the lawn was a great source of relaxation for him. 
  • Over the years Dad could also be found updating, improving or rebuilding parts of the house or his barns. He loved tinkering with most anything you can find in a garage. He especially loved rebuilding his collection of tractors and his antique autos -the model A was one of his first proudest rebuilds. We lost count of how many tractors and cars he bought, sold, and traded. He cherished his time with anything that had a steering wheel, tires and a motor!   
  • Dad loved our hobby farm – he proudly shared his knowledge with Wendy, Darrell and I while raising our  4-H steers. He was awesome at helping us not only because of his work on the Roosevelt farm, but also because he too had been a member of the Dutchess County 4-H Beef Club when he was kid. I remember many muddy spring visits during the 70’s, when we’d hop into his pickup truck and go for our annual Polled Hereford steer shopping trip. The well-rounded life lessons we learned because of him sharing his farming expertise with us – immeasurable.  
  • Our home grown steers also played to his favor, as anyone who knew him knew he was a stickler for fine prime-prime red meat. Along with the beef, his chickens and their eggs, and his pigs with their pork chops and bacon, all made for an annual freezer full of healthy food. He loved the huge garden that he and mom used to plant in the side yard, and was so proud of mom when she used to can and freeze nearly all of our basic vegetables for the year. He had a hankering for eating healthy food, which mom always had ready for him. He loved her cooking. That’s not to say he didn’t enjoy his Wise potato chips, his Breyers Vanilla Bean ice cream, or a piece of chocolate, but his meals had to be healthy. 
  • Another favorite of Dad’s was our many years of snowmobiling. He had so many friends who used to ride together through the fields, all over town. Our yard connected the fields from one part of town to the other. Dad had such fun when the group would gather in the backyard, and share their tales of surviving the bonfires and cookouts up on the mountain, or stories of who had trouble going up or down horseback hill. We even went on long weekend snowmobiling adventures up north – sometimes to Old Forge, sometimes to Lake Luzerne. Dad was always happy at full throttle on his black Arctic Cat Panther. 
  • When we reminisce about our snowmobiling days, we can’t leave out the topic of Dad’s much sought after homemade hard cider.  But at the same time – let’s just leave that topic right here. If you know you know on this one! 
  • Dad loved our decades of annual two-week family vacations to the Daytona 500, and side trips to Disney World. For decades he held eight annual seats for the race. We learned our enjoyment for NASCAR stock car racing because he loved it. Back then, Dad’s all time favorite driver was the king, Richard Petty.  Don’t you remember Dad wearing his Richard Petty black cowboy hat and black glasses?
  • Dad and Mom were pros at throwing parties, including backyard clambakes, picnics, and Kentucky Derby dinners. But a couple of their parties stand out as over the top:
    • In 2004, their house turned 200 years old. So they threw the house a birthday party.They planned for well over a year to have an open house to share their piece of history with hundreds of people from around the Hudson Valley. 
    • In 2009, to celebrate their 50th anniversary, they booked a block of rooms at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal for immediate family and close friends. We all traveled together, almost filling an Amtrak car, from Poughkeepsie to the station underneath the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. We spent a long weekend sightseeing, eating, and celebrating their 50 years.  

Dad was always happy when he and mom were entertaining.  

  • Dad and mom shared many trips around the world. They took Amtrak trips back and forth across the United States, an Alaskan cruise, a longboat cruise down the Rhine River, a cruise through the Panama Canal, they visited Scotland, and flew St. Martin a couple of times.  They loved these travels – but their favorite was Ireland, which is why they visited there four times. They could talk for hours about how much and why they loved Ireland.
  • After returning from their trips, Dad was most happy when he had an audience to share his stories about the people they met, all that they did, saw, ate, and drank. Sometimes they traveled just the two of them, but more often than not, they shared those trips with dear relatives and friends. He adored their decades of wintering at the LaCasta in Pompano, Florida, and all of their friendships they formed there. While in the south, he’d love to hear from us in the north about our snow storms and cold temperatures. He was happier than anything to say, “Well, it’s sunny, about 75 here, and the ocean looks calm today.”  LaCosta isn’t going to be the same without Dad there in the winter. 
  • In more recent years, during good weather when mom and dad weren’t out of town, you could find them, nearly every afternoon, both freshly showered, fluffed and buffed, sitting on their beautiful front porch “pre-gaming” with their four o’clock cocktails, just watching the traffic go by. Dad got such a kick out of the many people who drove by that he didn’t know, yet who all waved and beeped at him.  When he had to miss an afternoon on the porch, often people would reach out to us to make sure everything was okay. I can’t count the number of times over the years that when former colleagues of mine, or even strangers, learned where we grew up, they knew the landmark – the big pretty white house on the sharp turn, in the late afternoon, with the two people sitting on the front porch waving. Even a few weeks ago, one of the sweet nurses who took care of dad said, “Oh, that’s where you live?!  Every time we drive by there, I tell my husband I want to sit on a porch just like they do and watch the world go by.”  Dad loved his self-assigned job of bringing joy and smiles to passers-by, from his front porch 
  • Wendy, Darrell and I learned at very young ages that dad was 99.9 % right with most anything he said, and that if you listened closely to him, and followed his lead, you’d be on the right track. This was him right up through his more recent tough days when he wasn’t feeling well. I’ll leave those stories out, because even though he enjoyed being the center of attention with sharing a good story and laughing with everyone, he really was also a private person. Private, proud, strong, and stoic…a definite member of the teflon generation.  

We could talk all day with each of you, and we could create a Netflix series from all of dad’s interesting, fun, and some unbelievable life experiences. For now, in honor of him, I’ll share his favorite afternoon routine and cocktail recipe. 

  • After your chores are done, and just before you go to take your late afternoon shower,
  • Get out two little 6 oz canning jars to use as your drinking glasses.
  • In each jar pour one jigger of vermouth and two jiggers of vodka –
    • That is – Martini Extra Dry Vermouth, and Svedka Vodka
  • Line up the two glasses, one behind the other, on the top shelf in the fridge to chill.  
  • Head upstairs to freshen up. 
  • After you’re done with your shower and have the handsome smell of Old English cologne on, head back downstairs, straight to the fridge.
  • Take out one of the jars and fill it to the rim with ice.
  • At this point, decide whether you want to add a drop of worcester sauce – depending on your mood (Sidebar – True story this was a recommendation made to him by his heart doctor!). 
  • Pick up your drink, head to the front porch.
  • Sit and enjoy the world passing by, while listening to your Irish music on the little, yellow, old fashioned portable radio. (Although he did recently upgrade to an Alexa speaker.) 
  • When you’ve finished your first cocktail, look next to you and say, “Shirl, are you going in for another cocktail?”
  • Be sassed by Shirl, often about being cute or handsome, then wait a few minutes until she returns from the kitchen with your second of their pre-game cocktails, and maybe some crackers, cheese, or chips.  
  • Between cocktails, it’s recommended, not mandatory, to take a pinch of Copenhagen.
  • Take your time to finish the second cocktail.
  • Then close up camp on the front porch and head inside.   
  • While Shirl prepares dinner, sit at the kitchen table to watch your favorite Fox Five News, and simultaneously scroll through the internet on your laptop to find out what was new with any favorite topics such as local or national news, Rush Limbaugh, politics, vehicle auctions, trains, and anything history.    

We’ll “See you in Chicago;” We’ll “See you in the funny papers;” and “Don’t take any wooden nickels, Dad!”

Copyright © 2024. Suzann Peterson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this text or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address the publisher.

A Heavy Bag to Carry

(Flash fiction)

by Suzie Peterson

She sent me a text. “On the way home from our honeymoon. Let’s get together soon.”  She didn’t miss a beat, as if nothing had happened. A lot had happened. But, that’s been the cycle.

Why has she been so angry? I was never enough. Her hate deep. For years she has publicly berated and humiliated me, hurtful insinuations on social media, and even kept my name off the newspaper announcement.

I reached out, again. I found her name on a wedding registry and sent the most expensive gift, with love and congratulations. We met several times for lunch. A glimmer of hope. Six weeks before her wedding, when we met at the diner, my heart sank, again. “Nothing’s going to change, the wedding programs have been printed,” her parting words.

Dinner plans made. Looking forward. She cancelled. “Not going through with the plans; you’ll disappoint me!” was her text. I was disappointed, again. The story ends the same, every time. She builds me up to knock me down.

She seems to want to make a connection, but then pulls away fast, without missing a beat. She manipulates the situation and places herself in the role of disappointed victim. She works hard at making sure she has followers. Somehow she is able to always make me look like a horrible dad, in her eyes.  

No invitation arrived. I sent them chocolates, a bottle of champagne and “Mr. and Mrs.” champagne glasses the week before their wedding. On her wedding day I sobbed at home, grieving the loss of what should have been. Still not understanding her level of anger and hatred.  

All of the other people she decided to call mom, dad, sister, brother, and who she has designated as her “parents-in-heart,” or her “rock to lean on,” have been safe places for labels of the family she had desperately wanted.  A need to replace me in honor of her mom.   

Her mom and I had been going through a bump. Her mom had complained about me to her, our friends, and family. She even had an affair. I didn’t know what to do. I was happy being married. This was just a marriage speed bump, I thought. We’d figure out the new jobs we needed, and our finances. But, her mom wasn’t sure. I didn’t know whether we were working out our problems or separating. Fate decided. Her mom died that night that she and I were hit head-on by that drunk driver. I lost the chance to right our marriage.

Nearly a nervous breakdown. I did my best for our daughter, and myself. I spoke kindly about her mom. My daughter and I had a hard time. Counseling. Buying things. Vacations. Even after her mom died, it seemed to be them vs. me. Her mom had modeled how to be disappointed and complain about me. I didn’t have a chance. Berating me had been one of their strong connections. Now a strong lasting connection.

“The wrong parent died!” she yelled.

For nearly twenty-five years, she has kept that connection alive. She hasn’t moved beyond her mom’s ‘unhappy wife’ perception. She treats me the way she remembers her mom treating me.

There is only so much disrespect, berating and verbal abuse a dad should be expected to take, from an adult daughter. I took the tough love route. Stop the manipulations, lies, stories and drama, and make better decisions about money and relationships.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the only thing my tough love did was give her more fuel to keep her loyalty to her mom alive, stronger than ever. She pushed me further away. To give me respect would be going against her loyalty to her mom’s perspective.    

Leaving me out of her wedding was the most heart-wrenching thing she could have done. Lost chances, lost hope, shattered heart.

I finally understand. Had she invited me to the wedding, then her life of high drama, manipulations, and made-up stories about me would have fallen apart, both in public and in her heart.

The unveiling, in front of her world, would have meant that many years of placing herself in the role of victim, and all of her imagined and self-created disappointments, were for naught.

By not having me attend the wedding, her lies and stories were able to continue; she comfortably remained the victim. Her mom and their strong connection were with her at the wedding.

I’ll probably never have my daughter back. I now understand that by me taking these hits from her, she got to keep her mom alive in her heart – in the only way she knows how.

Copyright © 2018 Suzann Peterson. All rights reserved.

Reflections and Memoir of Growing Up On A Hobby Farm

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Reflections and Memoir of Growing Up on a Hobby Farm

By Suzie Peterson 

I didn’t know it at the time, but when I was growing up on a hobby farm, I was getting quite the well-rounded education about life, surviving, and ultimately what it means to be a wholesome, good person. 

There’s a thread of farming in my family history, which led to me growing up on a hobby farm in a rural town seventy-five miles north of New York City.  My dad was raised on a farm where he was expected to help out with all the chores. During his childhood and teenage years, he raised steers with the local 4-H club for show and competition at the local county fair. As a young adult, one of his first jobs was that of Clove Creek Farm Manager for FDR Jr., on the Roosevelt property in Poughquag, New York.   We lived on that property until I was 5 years old.  My dad decided that he wanted to start his own business, so we moved to a big ol’ farmhouse on the other end of town, which was owned by my dad’s new business partner.    

Prior to our family moving on to the property, and eventually purchasing it, it had been a large working dairy farm. When we moved in, the fields surrounding the farm house were rented out to local farmers to grow corn for their livestock, and as a place for their animals to graze during the summer.  It was always an exciting day in mid-spring when the Black Angus farmer dropped off his trailer load of 20 –30 cattle.  It was so peaceful during the summer to watch them lumber about the fields, huddle together at the tree line, chew their cud, and swish their tails.                       

It took time for dad and his partner to grow their construction company business, which meant that money was not easy for our family at that time. This is when the hobby farm was integrated into our already hard working and busy lives of work and school.  My parents knew that a way to save money, and stay healthy, was to grow a big garden for harvesting, freezing, and canning produce, and to raise our own meat. My dad’s farming experiences kicked in. They rototilled a huge garden. The family planted, watered, weeded and picked from the garden all spring and summer. Dad built a root cellar into the side of one of the hills where the potatoes, carrots and the other root vegetables were stored during the winter. We canned tomatoes, froze beans, peas, and corn, made pickles, and we had fresh tomatoes, lettuce and cucumbers all during the growing season.   

The pigs we raised would eat just about anything, but they especially liked it when we brought them the leftover produce from the local grocery store. They were really happy, snorting, critters when they saw our station wagon back up to their pigpen. They knew there were bins of vegetables in their immediate future.  After devouring all that they could, they would retreat to their happy place – in the mud, in the middle of the stream that ran through their pigpen.  We raised and slaughtered our own chickens, which is where I learned that there really is such a thing as “running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” We also raised our own Polled Hereford steers for 4-H, for competition in local fairs, and ultimately the freezer. My sister, brother and I were expected to help take care of the family hobby farm – the garden, the property, and especially our steers.    

The real solid work ethic it takes for ten, eleven and twelve year-olds to raise a steer is unlike any other. Those 1,250 pound animals counted on us for their survival. There was no such thing as staying inside because of bad weather, or taking time off to enjoy the good weather.  Although the animals did not require us to be with them full-time every day, our days did have to revolve around the times that the animals needed to be cared for, fed, and watered.  

Before school every day, around 5:00 a.m., flashlight in hand, we headed out back to the barn to feed the animals.  It was a daily challenge to keep their food safe from any number of varmints who enjoy freeloading in barns. The bales of hay and feed bags of oats and corn mixture that we carried for our animals were real darn heavy. We had to carry multiple five-gallon pails of water from the stream to the steer’s water bin, several times a day; no such thing as running water in that barn back then! These animals each had their own personality; they knew who they each belonged to, they knew our voices, and what we expected from them. They enjoyed when we washed, brushed and talked to them. Their ears perked up and wriggled happily.  Daily stall cleaning was different depending upon the season. Mucking a stall in subfreezing temps brought mixed feelings – you were frozen while you’re doing the work, but the manure was solid, easier to handle, and the smell was not as potent as in the summer.   The smell increased during the 70- 90 degree weather, so the faster you worked, the quicker the smelly job was done. We eventually became immune to the smell. It was always a good feeling to leave a clean stall for our steers, knowing that they would have a fresh bed of hay to rest on, until the cycle of cleaning up after them started again. They especially enjoyed eating fresh green hay. Anything fresh and green was like their “candy.” Their ears would perk up, they would get happy-frisky, their tails would wave, and they would chew and chew. 

 Humor is inevitable on a hobby farm. All you have to do is sit and watch the antics of any of the animals and their interactions with their people to put a smile on your face.  

 One morning, our big, drooling St. Bernard, Molly, hopped into the pig pen.  She was bound and determined to let the pigs know who was boss. She stood and barked non-stop at Arnold and Mildred.  Mom, in her robe and curlers in her hair, heard the commotion. She ran up to the pig pen with a broom in her hand, hopped in, and was doing what she could to swish and corral Molly and the pigs apart from each other. She was blindsided by one of the pigs when he ran between her legs. She went head over teakettle into the mud. Thank God she didn’t get hurt.  It was unnerving for her then, but the thought of seeing her be flipped flat by a pig, in her curlers and robe, is now a funny story that is retold and laughed about at many family events. 

 And then there were Homer and Jethro. They were our two chubby white pet ducks who waddled their way up to the kitchen window at our dinner time on most evenings.  They would have quite the stare-down and quacking conversation with dad until he gave them some chunks of bread through the window. They always made a disgusting mess near that part of the sidewalk, so we seldom walked barefoot in that area of the yard.    

Every once in a while a steer or two would escape from the pen.  The cause might have been as simple as someone forgetting to lock the gate, or as annoying as the steers having pushed through part of the fence.  It took persistence, patience, coaxing, and manipulating skills to find the runaway steers, figure out how to get them calmed down, corral them back to their pen, and repair the route of escape. Not easy, and not fast. The scene of escapee steers, if they’re not yours to catch, can be quite entertaining. They get so excited that their tails stand straight up. On Polled Herefords that means the little white tip at the end of their tail is playfully waving high up in the air; they kick their hind legs up in a rascally kind of way, and then they gallop. Straight for the nearest cornfield – their candy store.  

 When you raise a steer in 4-H, you have to train him so that he cooperates for you for when you exercise him and when you bring him to shows. The training begins with a lesson on how to make your own harness or halter to put on the steer. That’s followed by a lesson about the persistence it takes to try to get an active, nervous, young animal of about 300–400 pounds, calmed down enough to trust you to lead him.  It takes a while, maybe a week or so, but with persistence, physical strength, and consistency, a steer can be trained to let you lead him down the road, into the hollow, for a nice long walk. These walks became their daily exercise to tone their muscles and fat to get them market ready for when it’s time to take them to the show, and eventual auction. The road I walked my steer on also happened to be the road where one of the best looking guys in the high school lived. So I took extra care to be sure my hair was done just so, and that I had on very neat clean clothes when I walked my steers…just in case he or his family (city folks) would pass by. And when they did, they’d stop and chat for a few minutes, intrigued by the sight of seeing a 1,250 pound Polled Hereford being taken for a walk down the road by a teenage girl. That just made my day when I got to talk with them. Thanks, steers!    

On the business side of our hobby farm, we had to keep track of the original cost of the calves, the cost of their food, shop for the highest quality and best priced feed, track the proportions of their different types of food depending on where they were at in their growth cycle, track how much they ate, and their weight gains. We had  know when they needed a veterinarian to visit, and we had to know how to speak with the veterinarian, We had to know what the going market prices were at auctions for our types of animals, and then we had to decide what cost per pound would be an acceptable bid when we sold them at the auction.  We had to understand the amount of the animal that would be considered waste and how much actual meat it would yield. We compared our data and traded tips with other local hobby farmers.  One year, the University of Connecticut purchased my steer to bring back to their farming students as an example of a really well grown animal!  

There were even lessons about charity on a hobby farm – my dad’s company would often purchase either a steer, a pig, or lamb at the county fair livestock auction and donate it to the local children’s home for their freezer.   

When you’re a kid raising a steer on the family hobby farm, if you want time off to go to your friend’s house to play, or for a sleepover, you have to drive some kind of a worthwhile bargain with your sibling to take care of your steer while you’re away. That bargain, among other promises, always included a demand that the favor be returned. 

Dealing with all of the weather elements in the northeast was not up for negotiation on the hobby farm. In the winter, we often trudged through many inches, or feet, of fresh fallen, unplowed snow to get to the barn. Our hands would freeze even when we had on our sturdy work gloves, and our cheeks would be real rosy. We used a pick to break through the layer of ice on the stream in order to gather pails of water for the animals. We learned early on in life that the fresh cold air is healthy, that you don’t melt in the rain, and that fresh fallen raindrops feel good dripping on your face. In the hot weather, we could often be found in the barn, near our steers, in front of the fan which would not only cool both of us down, but also keep the flies away from them. As kids, each time we stepped into the barn, regardless of the weather, we were unconsciously reminded of its complete peacefulness. The animals were generally calm, quiet, and happy to see us. It was in the barn that we would forget about any uncomfortable weather and hard work. The harmonious feeling took over, and got us through it all.    

When you’re a kid growing up on a hobby farm, there is very little room to tolerate such things as disrespect, drama, laziness, procrastination, carelessness, or impatience. You learn from your mistakes immediately, and move on. The seasons and the life cycles of the plants and animals are what you work with, and plan for. You learn responsibility, accountability, integrity, and honesty. The family has to work closely together. 

 Of course, like any family, some spats do occur…because we’re all different. You learn to get over the spats quickly, regardless of whether you are the winner, loser, or you compromise. You learn to just move on. It’s not all about  “you.” The animals, plants and your family are counting on you. Being kind to all of them, thinking through situations on their behalf, comparing and contrasting different instances, understanding causes, effects and results, learning to be flexible, to work independently, with a partner, or as a group are all part of the normal day for a family on a hobby farm. By nature, for it to all work, it has to be that way. You naturally learn that communication skills, spoken, unspoken, or written are invaluable for both your family and the animals. You learn to understand the value of wide open spaces, to appreciate and ‘read’ the sky, the wind, and the trees. You truly appreciate the fresh, homegrown taste of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Hobby farmers work hard and smart. They work beyond the point of being tired because they work until the job is done.  It isn’t easy, but the best rewards and appreciation come from the things we have to work hard at in order to succeed. 

 Finally, when the job is done, kids on a hobby farm know when to hop on the sled and slip down a snow-covered hill. They know when the time is right to take a bike ride down the tree covered road, or play in the creek, to swing or rest under a big ol’ maple shade tree, or to just lay in the field of deep green grass and daydream under the fluffy white clouds and crisp blue sky.

Copyright @ 2020 Suzann Peterson. All rights reserved.