Today, I was riding my mountain bike through the woods. Alone, riding under dense cover my mind began to wander. I recalled a story my father told me when I was a boy that I’d like to pass along to you since Halloween is coming up in just a few weeks.
My father was a child of the Great Depression. He grew up on a farm, one of nine children. His father and the older boys grew crops and had a small lumber business. But when the depression hit, the lumber business dried up, so they had to make do with what little they could grow on the farm.
After harvest, my dad’s father grew ill. They didn’t have the money to pay for a doctor, but they didn’t think whatever he had was particularly serious.
He stayed in bed for several days trying to get well. My father, about 9 at the time, went with his brother to the field behind the house. They kicked dirt clogs and ran in the field for quite some time when they saw a man coming from the house toward them.
They stopped their running when they recognized it was their father.
“You boys get back to the house. Your mother is about to put dinner on the table,” their father called out.
“Yes, sir!” my father replied. They ran over to him.
“Are you feeling better now?” the brother asked of his father.
“I’m feeling really good now. You boys get inside and eat your supper.”
They ran in leaving their father in the field looking at the cleared land.
Sure enough, their mother was putting the food on the table. “Go wash up and ask your daddy if he feels like eat’in anything.”
The boys looked at each other. “What do you mean? Daddy is in the field out back. He said he felt fine.”
“Well, he’s still in the bed!” replied their mother.
They went into the bedroom and found their father had passed away that afternoon.
My father, to his own dying day, swore the story was true and so did his brother.
Just thought I’d pass it along since it was this close to Halloween and all.