When I was young we lived on an acre and a quarter in Midwest City, Oklahoma. The back quarter was usually planted in a garden of some sort. We weren't supposed to run through the corn rows, but they made such great hiding places. If I got hungry when I was outside playing, I'd go eat "light bulbs", what I called the yellow pear tomatoes. Sometimes there were blackberries to be had. Life was sweet.

My dad had a Gravely Tractor. It had attachments that allowed it to do all kinds of chores. It had a broad, many-toothed device that enabled the operator to scissor-cut down weeds and tall brush. It could be a "roto"-tiller for the garden and it had a large covered circular attachment for mowing grass.

We had a lot of grass to play on and it had to be mowed regularly. My dad would mow large paths around our property and my brothers and I would follow along behind like a parade. Our bare feet would turn green from the chlorophyll of the bleeding stems. The mower was loud and you had to yell over it to be heard. It also had gears to go in reverse for maneuverability. We were following along so close once that when my dad reversed, he stepped on us. You could hear the yelling then.

Sometimes, my dad would let us walk in front of him holding onto the handles as he mowed. The tractor vibrated so much from the engine that you couldn't even see the handles as solid objects, they moved so fast. It made my hands itch but I didn't care. I was working with my dad. Sometimes, when he idled down to move to another area or to put the mower away, he would let me ride on the circular blade cover. He was always careful and warned us to stay back when he mowed because the blades weren't only dangerous because they were sharp, but that sometimes they would throw rocks at pretty high speeds. Later on, he got a seat on wheels that he could hook up and ride on behind the tractor.

We had a rickety old shed where he kept a lot of his tools. He always told us to stay out of it because it was so old, it might fall in. That somewhat confused me because he went in there. Wasn't it dangerous for him too? But then, he was big and strong. Nothing could hurt my dad. At least I thought so.

One day my dad came home early from work. He had his left hand all bandaged up. There had been an accident at the meat packing plant where he worked. His hand had been smashed between a wall and a heavy handle to a cart of some kind. No bones were broken but there was a large gash in the palm of his hand. It swelled up and got full of pus. They had to break the stitches to drain out the infection.

Afterward, my dad had this little rubber football he had to squeeze for therapy. My brothers and I thought we should be able to play with that toy too. We didn't understand it was supposed to help his hand heal. Later, he taught himself how to pay guitar. Sometimes I think that was partly to give his hand therapy too, since the left hand does all the fretting. I did get to play with that "toy" which I learned well enough to entertain myself somewhat.

During the summers when we grew a lot of our own food, we would sometimes trade with some of our neighbors. I remember my mom trading green beans for ice cream from the Howdy Doody ice cream truck that came into the neighborhood occasionally. Another thing I remember about the garden was the potato plants. My dad gave us a penny apiece to pick off the potato bugs that were chewing on the leaves. They weren't like what they call potato bugs here in California. Those remind me of giant ants and tend to be underground. These were smaller beetles that had brown stripes on their backs. Well, we put them in jars so they could be counted. I think my brothers managed to collect more than I did.

We would get raw milk from one of the neighbors too. I remember my mother giving my younger brother and myself a quart jar of milk and having us roll it back and forth on the floor to each other. Sneaky way to get butter churned, that was.

One summer we stayed in the small house of four rooms in a sort of semi-camp out. There wasn't any electricity so we used kerosene lamps at night. It was too hot to use the wood burning stove to cook on inside, so my dad took it, smoke stack and all, out in the yard. I sat in the back doorway and drew a picture of the scene.

There was large elm tree behind the house that my brothers and I played under in the hot part of the day. We built "Flintstones" houses up against the trunk of the elm and nearby. We used mud and sticks that we're laying around. It was a lot of fun until the cows came home and stepped on them. Apparently, we built our little village on top of the cow trail. Actually, the cows were just on their way home at another farm. Since there wasn't a regular resident at the Fox farm, it didn't matter where their cow trail ran, until they destroyed our hard work. Oh, well.

My brother had his first hunting experience on the Fox family farm. My dad had hunted as a boy to help feed the family. He took my older brother out squirrel hunting with the .22 rifle. I don't remember if my brother got one or not, but they came back with at least two squirrels. The idea was to teach survival skills. They had to skin and gut them so my mom could cook them. I didn't want any part of it and stayed in the house. My brother threw up.

Finally, we had cooked squirrel. My mom was never very good at cooking meat, outside of a casserole. I'm not sure I actually tried some but I remember the remark being made that they must have been old squirrels because they were tough to chew. Thank goodness for the pot of beans that simmered on the outdoor potbellied stove all day.

One highlight was that we were there over the fourth of July. We had our own fireworks spectacular. I was afraid to look up when I was younger so I mostly remember the scary shadows the trees threw on the ground when the great booms happened. However, I had a great time with sparklers and loved to watch the Roman Candles present their rainbows of color.

At night, my mom heated water for us to take our baths. We used an old fashioned wash tub. Since you had to draw the water from the well and heat it over the wood burning stove, the three of us kids had to take turns in the same bath water. I wonder just how clean we really got. Since there was no indoor plumbing we had to make sure everyone who didn't belong stayed in the other side of the house. This also meant that we had to use a chamber pot at night. During the day, there was the out house. A wooden box with an enormous hole in the seat, smelled really "lovely", was dark and full of spider webs. Or, you could go out in the brush if you were quick. What I could never understand was that if you decided to go that route, the adults would always remind you to "Watch out for snakes." Thanks a lot.

Sometimes we got to sleep on feather beds. They were great when you fluffed them up but would pack down and get hard if they didn't have enough feathers. These were homemade feather beds, mind you. Old ones at that. But we enjoyed the novelty of it.

When I was a little older, we made a sudden trip down to my grandpa's farm. I say sudden because it was during the winter and school. That's when we used the potbellied stove in its appointed place because there was snow this trip. I was too naďve to understand at the time but later realized the history of it. We lived neat Tinker Air Force Base and my father felt it could be a target from Cuban missiles, so he took us down to the farm till things cooled off a little.

My father was always looking out for us. Sometimes we didn't see eye to eye but we were always respectful of his decisions. Being the only girl and a Daddy's Girl at that, I became the family negotiator. If the rest of us wanted to do something fun, like going to the drive-in movie, they sent me in to do the asking. It worked most of the time. When I was young and we had finished eating dinner on Sunday, I would stand next to my father while he had his "dessert" cigarette. He would be having a conversation with those still at the table and slowly I would end up in his lap. Suddenly, he would take notice and wonder when I managed to get there.

I adored my father. We had a special bond that may not have existed if I hadn't been the only girl. I remember going to hardware stores and auto junk lots and being bored out of my head, but going because time with my dad was special. We would work together in the garage where he did his wood working. I'd get the job of sitting on the end of a board to hold it still while he sawed the other end. He'd have me draw things on the wood for him to cut. Once when he was lifting something heavy, I teased him saying, "I'll grunt for you."

Unfortunately, time and distance seem to creep into our lives. As adults, other things become more prominent. I would often think of my father as I do now when I hear the familiar sound of lawn equipment. He loved the land and growing things. When he retired from his supervisor's job and moved to Washington State with my stepmother to take care of her dad, it became harder to see him. He got himself another riding lawn care vehicle and had his own business doing what he loved. There was the ever-present garden in the back yard.

When he was hospitalized with kidney failure, we almost lost him. I flew up to see him for what might have been the last time. He was in intensive care with a tube down his throat to help him breathe and another down his nose to supply nourishment. He was hooked up to a dialysis machine periodically to cleanse his blood. He faded in and out of consciousness and didn't really seem aware of too much. I talked to him and stroked his forehead. I observed the hand with the two fingers that had been shortened by the blades of his snow blower.

Twice during the few days I was able to visit, my dad looked at me with recognition and tried to speak. Of course, he couldn't with the respirator in place. He would quickly fade out again.

While I was there, he seemed to improve some. The day I had to leave, they took him off the respirator but left it in place till they were sure he was able to breathe on his own. If he had difficulty, they wouldn't have to impose the trauma of reinsertion on him again. By the time I arrived home, he was successfully off the respirator. I like to think that, due to my special relationship with my dad, my visit made a difference.

He never regained more than three percent use of his kidneys and remained dependant on dialysis for the rest of his life. The summer following his hospitalization I took my two daughters to see their grandpa. My older daughter had her sixth birthday with her Grandpa Fox, although we had to vary it one day due to his dialysis schedule. The girls went in to see how things worked for their grandpa but I don't think they quite understood it.

At his home we played dominoes and picked blackberries and strawberries from the garden. My dad took the girls for a trip up and down the driveway on his riding lawnmower and I took pictures. It was the last time we got to see each other. My father was tethered to the dialysis machine and was only able to travel for a short time when he was able to use a portable machine. When his point of hookup failed the doctors were unable to create a new one successfully. He felt very frustrated that he could not go visit family.

Life happened as it tends to do and I was unable to visit my dad another time. Eventually, the word came that he had finally gone on to the other side of life, as we knew he would. While his body was laid to rest under the grass that he had so often walked on, his soul now resides with his maker. I wonder what their conversations are. I wouldn't doubt that the subject of the Earth's natural beauty is among the topics discussed. My father loved being close to God's nature.

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