Through the many years of writing this little column, I’ve received hundreds of letters, emails and telephone calls from readers. Most want to express their like (or in some cases – dislike) of a particular story I have relayed through the pages of one of the magazines or newspapers for which I write. I appreciate every letter, but the one I received today had a profound effect upon this simple, old storyteller.
A few weeks ago, one of my editors forwarded a handwritten letter they had received from an 87 year-old woman, wanting to know my mailing address so that she might send me something because she, “sure does get a kick out of that Life is Simple article.” I found the letter quite charming and very sincere, so I sent her a copy of one of my books as a way of thanking her for her comments while providing her with my address.
Today, as I sorted through the many bills, junk mail and other letters, I recognized the handwriting on one particular piece. The envelope was a blue, window-type envelope that was obviously recycled from some junk mail she had received at some time, intended to be returned with a payment for no-telling-what. She had meticulously taped a white piece of paper with my name and address inside the window and had saved the dime or quarter that a legal-sized envelope would have cost her. I thought of my late mother having done that very same thing so many times.
Inside were five pages (written on both sides) telling me the story of her life, beginning with how there is nothing in the world any better than, “living and raising children on a farm.” She proceeded to tell me how her parents had brought her to this part of the world in a covered wagon all the way from Oklahoma, in 1924, and how well she remembers the drought of the 1930s when she and her sisters would, “ride the work horses while driving the cows over to the neighbor’s farm every day, because that was the only place around that had water.”
She relayed how poor they were during the depression and that sewing centers had been set up by President Roosevelt so that women could make clothes out of flour sacks in order for the kids to have garments to wear to school where she, “went all eight years.” Then her handwriting seemed to pep up when she described meeting “a good, Christian man” while she was working at a bakery, “so, I married him!” She added that upon marriage, “his dad gave us two cows and mine gave us a big hog,” and their farming career began. She made sure to interject, several times throughout her letter, that life really is simple.
Her letter glowed as she talked about the kids they raised, the grand-kids that came along, and even the great and great-great grandchildren that followed. I read her incredible epic tale of tragic deaths and unfortunate happenings as well. She told of her time in a wheelchair following two leg surgeries and how her husband is suffering from heart problems and cancer at the current time and how, last year, they finally had to sell the last of their cows and, “a lot of tears were shed that day.” I thought of my own father when he was ailing from cancer and cried when we loaded his last cow – the only time I ever saw him cry.
Even though this elderly lady had seen much suffering, she was no complainer. When her husband had heart surgery, she was thankful that she was healthy so she could continue the farm while he recuperated. She was in her 70s then. She ended the letter by informing me that she had just passed her driving test once again and closed by telling me, “don’t get too scared at Halloween, have a happy Thanksgiving and merry Christmas.”
There it was – the lives of Floy and Albert – on five pages of wide-ruled paper from a Big Chief tablet (front and back). I’m honored and humbled that she considered me worthy of such a gratifying peek into what has obviously been a life of extreme significance; a life we should all be lucky enough to emulate.
Jerry Crownover farms in Lawrence County. He is a former professor of Agriculture Education at Missouri State University, and is an author and professional speaker. To contact Jerry, go to ozarksfn.com and click on ‘Contact Us.’
