Life Giving Water

There are several verses of scripture that refer to living water. After contemplating how important water is in the history of the world, and in my personal life, it is easy to see why Christ and His gospel was compared to life giving water, but His is an everlasting well of water leading to eternal life.

It wasn't until years after leaving the farm that I gave much thought to how important water is to man's survival (except for the occasional times that we had no electricity to run our water pump or the pump would quit working. Then we went into survival mode.) Throughout the history of the world, civilizations began near water and as new settlements were established they were always near a source of water.

Part of the Musselshell River on our farm.

Our 1200 or so acres of land were dependent on the grid of irrigation ditches that traversed them. I recently found a website that discusses the uses of the Musselshell River which ran through our property and provided the irrigation water for us. The water supply for our irrigation system originated in Deadman's Basin about 85 miles upstream from our property. At regular intervals along the river were manmade diversion dams that fed the irrigation systems for the various farmers along the way. In my experience the diversion dam was the only area of our ditches that had concrete. Once the water was diverted to our ditches it flowed down dirt ditches. There were no fancy portals or siphon tubes to send the water into our fields. We had to dam the water with large sheets of treated canvas held in place with 2 X 4s. We would walk along the ditch bank in rubber boots and a shovel in hand to make cuts in the ditch bank for the water to spill over and flow into the field until it reached the other end and spread out across the entire width and breadth of the field. Then we would pull out the dam, move it down further, pack mud back into the cuts and make new cuts for the next section of field. This required frequent trips in the middle of the night and throughout the day until our water turn was over, and if we were diligent all the fields received their life giving water to survive until the next watering turn.


This is the irrigation ditch that ran past our house, probably less than 10 feet from my bedroom window. In these pictures taken at a Lear family reunion, we are playing tug o' war over the ditch. I would say this brother (I think it is Jim) was on the losing team.

Another Lesson Learned on a Tractor

After Verlin and I had been married for five years we decided we wanted to move to the country. I was glad. When I was young, growing up on a farm, I said over and over again that I didn't want to live in the city. When I went way to college I found out that city life wasn't all that bad but it sounded good to get back to country living. We purchased the 10+ acres of cherry orchard near Spanish Fork. It wasn't long before I was sitting on the seat of a tractor again. We used the tractor to work in the orchard as well as to harvest hay at our adjoining neighbor's place so that we could provide hay for our milk cows. In the meantime Verlin had become extremely busy with his concrete business and auto parts machining business, and more of the chores fell to me and the kids.


This is not our equipment but similar to the rake and baler we used in Spanish Fork.

Now, one last lesson I learned on the seat of a tractor. Maybe you have heard of Andrew's story of being run over by the "Big One". I think it was the summer that Andrew was about four when I had to go out and rake the hay. I didn't really have my heart in it that day. I was troubled by our financial situation, the fact that Verlin was working twice as hard and we were getting farther and farther in debt as his businesses were not bringing in the money we needed. He had borrowed against the house to try and make a go of things and we were behind on our payments and facing losing our house. I remember wondering that morning if Heavenly Father really knew how much we needed His help and if He really cared about us---me. In other words, I was feeling sorry for myself. That was my frame of mind as I went out to work. Andrew asked if he could come along and I said sure. I enjoyed riding beside my dad on the tractor while he worked so I was happy to let Andrew have that experience. I had been working my way through the hay field, and we had made several uneventful passes. As we approached the end of the field yet another time, I slowed, lifted the rake and made the turn. Just as I was making the turn, the tractor tire hit uneven ground near a dike and the tractor jerked. Andrew, who was not prepared for the jolt, lost his balance and fell forward off the tractor, kind of somersaulting to the ground right in front of the "Big One"-the rear tire. I immediately stepped on the clutch and tried to back up so that I could get off and help Andrew. I was scared to death! In my haste, I put the tractor in 1st gear instead of reverse and drove forward on him a second time. From my perspective on the tractor seat, I watched as he almost disappeared from my view. When I finally got the tractor stopped, I wasn't even sure Andrew was still alive. To my relief he was alive and conscious. Caution was abandoned as I grabbed him up and ran for the truck, told the kids where I was going and rushed him to the doctor. There was no visible blood, but I feared internal bleeding and broken bones. To my amazement he suffered only a bruised pelvis and the imprint of the tractor tire tread on his back. As he fell to the ground he kind of went into a crouched position down in the low area of the dike and this is what saved his life and protected him from serious injury. Was it a coincidence? The answer--NO. I had asked Heavenly Father that morning if he knew my needs or even cared. I got my answer. I was reassured that day as I have been on many occasions since that Heavenly Father knows each of us, knows our needs, and loves each one of us.

Stories About Haying Season

I have a vague memory of driving for my dad while he fed the sheep one winter. I was still quite young as drivers go. I think Dad must have got a late start feeding the livestock and the older kids were gone to school so I must have been about 5 1/2. I'm pretty sure I would not have put one of my own kids on a tractor at that age but Dad either trusted me or was desperate--most likely the latter. I don't know where Jim was, probably helping him throw out the hay. Anyway, Dad put the tractor in 1st gear on the lowest idle speed he could get and sat me on the tractor seat and told me to just steer the tractor straight ahead. He must have seen me at play sitting on the seat of the tractor pretending to drive it and thought I had it figured out. I don't remember much about the experience other than I didn't do a very good job. I ended up letting the tractor go down in a shallow ditch and Dad had to come and help me get it straightened out and on course again. He didn't yell at me though. He taught me patience.

This baler is called the Roto-Baler. It was the kind of baler we used. We never made it through haying season without the baler breaking down and Dad had to fix it before he could finish the job.

I am not sure how old I was when I started being the designated driver for hauling hay but I did that also. Since I was too small to handle the hay bales, Dad put me in the truck instead. (Jim also remembers driving when he had to kneel on the seat) I just know I couldn't see over the steering wheel very well and I couldn't reach the clutch, brake or gas pedals. Dad put the truck in gear and told me to keep it going down the field between two rows of hay. He and the older boys, armed with a hay hook in each hand, walked alongside the wagon and threw the bales on as the wagon passed by them. I have seen Dad work both sides of the wagon by himself. That took stamina! He would help me with the truck when we got to the end of the field.

As I got older, I could manage the turns and with the passage of time I was able to use the pedals and shift the truck into gear. My brothers learned that they had better brace themselves when I was taking off because I didn't do a very good job working the clutch at first. I don't think anyone ever actually fell off the wagon though. I just shook them up a bit as the truck jerked into gear. I was pretty excited the first time Dad told me to go ahead and shift into second gear and drive clear to the haystack in a distant field after the wagon was loaded. Dad taught me perseverance and I grew in confidence.

Eventually I graduated from being the driver to being on the hay wagon placing the bales as Dad and my brothers threw the bales on. Denise and I would stand on the wagon with hay hooks in each hand and grab a bale the minute it was thrown on so that it wouldn't roll off again and quickly put it in place to make a good tight stack that would survive the ride to the hay yard. That was kind of hard to do with "round bales". Once in the hay yard, we threw off the bales and Dad would help lay out the bales to get a good base for the haystack. I would sometimes throw the bales from the wagon to the stack and sometimes I had to put the bales in place on the stack. I learned how to give the bale a swing and a shove to get it tight against the previous bales so they would hopefully stay put until winter feeding time. In time, the kids were able to build a stack from start to finish.

We used a single-bar sickle mower similar to this one.

The growing needs of a large family drove Dad to take on a second job working at a gas plant about 30 miles away, and he required more help with the chores. He had to rely more on his children to do the irrigating for him, herding the sheep, helping with lambing, and taking over in mowing, raking, and baling the hay as well as hauling it. Pat, Dee and Calvin did more of the work based on their being older, but Jim, Denise and I got our fair share as time went on and so did the younger brothers and Lori. I remember how nervous I was the first time Dad asked me if I thought I could handle mowing the hay. Since we were taught that you don't tell Dad no, I just said I would do my best. After I got over the initial nervousness, I actually enjoyed driving around and around the field and seeing the entire field cut by the end of the day. He taught me to take pride in a job well done.


We learned how to work hard in the hay field, and the neighbors noticed. One summer when we were in high school, Mom contracted with a neighbor to haul their hay for them. They had the bigger, heavier square wire tied bales but we managed to get the job done to the farmer's surprise and satisfaction. We used a large stock truck with high side panels to maximize our time and get as much hay on as we could. Mom did the driving, Jim and Calvin threw the bales and Denise and I stacked them in the truck. It meant that Jim and Calvin had to throw the bales higher than when we used our low riding hay wagon and Denise and I had to stack the bales higher than usual. We left the end of the truck cleared of bales as long as we could so they didn't have to throw too high for very long and we just kept dragging the bales forward and upwards until we had the entire stock truck full of hay--probably six to eight tiers high. With the wire tied bales, we didn't use hay hooks. We just wore gloves to protect our hands and grabbed the two wires to lift the bales. If we missed one of the wires, we risked having the wire pull off and break the bale. (It's actually kind of strange that Denise and I wore protective clothing for our hands but didn't mind scratched arms and legs as we wore cutoffs and short sleeve/sleeveless shirts to help get a tan. How shortsighted we were! If I had it to do over again, I probably would have had my arms and legs covered as well as my face shaded from the harmful sun's rays.) For the last few bales, the boys would just heft the bale as high as they could and we would reach over and grab onto it and pull it up. The best part of that summer was when that job ended!

Winter Feeding Time

Hey, I found another cool picture of my dad's. This is a picture of Darrell on his hay wagon feeding the cattle in Mar 1951 shortly after we moved to the Melstone place (also known as the Musselshell place). I didn't hear about where he got his draft horses, but his dad and grandpa were both in the horse business, among other things, so it came naturally to my Dad.

By my earliest recollection we were using a tractor to pull this same wagon and later a pickup to feed the livestock. We also used it to haul hay in the summer. Since I didn't have to go out and help in the worst weather or very often it was kind of an adventure to go out and help with the feeding. It was usually one of the kids that drove and Dad helped the others with throwing out the hay bales. You know, that first few years it probably wasn't even baled hay but loose stacked hay that was thrown off with a pitch fork. Our first baler made about 40-pound cylindrical bales, tied with baling twine so they couldn't be as heavy as the later bales bound with wire.

As with the picture of "branding day" my senses are engaged as I look at the pictures of the hay wagon and some of the livestock we fed. At one point we had 800 to 1,000 sheep (counting lambs) and several hundred head of cattle. As we drove out into the pasture towards them, Dad would call out to the cattle and we would mimic his call.
m-m-M-M-O-O-o-o, m-m-M-M-O-O-o-o-cow we would call and the cows responded with bellows of their own. I practiced a lot to get the call just like Dad's. I thought they were pretty smart to come when we called. The cows would lift their heads, see (and maybe smell) their dinner and come on the run. As the first bale dropped, dust would fly and the scent of summer gone would escape from the freshly broken bale. The cattle all ran for that first bale but would soon abandon it and follow us further as another bale and another dropped to the ground. Some of the braver (or hungrier) cows dared run alongside the wagon and try to catch a bite off the hay not yet thrown, their steamy breath filled the air around us. The strings were pulled off the hay bales and they were kicked and rolled out to allow more cattle to feed on a bale, and soon there was a trail of cattle all along the route hurrying to get their fill before they were pushed aside or the hay was all gone until the next day.

My dad spent all summer putting away hay for winter and all winter feeding it to the livestock. He never got a rest. I guess I shouldn't say that, because I did find some pictures of him catching a catnap in a chair or on the sofa. It was a well deserved rest.


For about 40 years, my dad and brothers spent their wintry days making sure the hay was distributed to the livestock until they could graze again. I'll bet Dad was so excited when spring brought new grass for grazing and the feeding ended for another season.


Here are some of the animals that we fed.

Going Back in Time

I don't know why I was so drawn to this picture when I discovered it the other day. It is actually a picture of some of my Dad's family, not my own family growing up, but the scene is much the same as I remember as a child with the exception that at our ranch we would have had the younger kids sitting on the top rails or peeking through the lower rails of the corral watching the proceedings of the annual branding of the cattle from a safe distance.

The guys would go out on horseback and bring in the herd and drive them into a corral. Dad and the boys brought out half a 55-gallon barrel that they had cut for this purpose and built a fire in it to heat the branding irons. They had a couple of irons so that one could be getting hot while they were using the other one.

The calves would be cut out of the herd one at a time. The picture is self explanatory. The calf didn't have much chance to get away if the men were doing their job. Someone would hold the front legs while planting a knee in the calve's neck. Another would sit on the horse and keep the rope taut between the saddle horn and the calf's hind legs. When the calf was set, a runner would bring the first red hot brand over and hand it off to the man designated to brand the calf.

Looking at the picture, stirs the senses. Can you smell the pungent barnyard dust, the smoke from the fire and the distinct aroma of singed hair as the brand seared the flesh and forever marked that calf with the "2 Lazy Y" that claimed it ours? If you listen carefully you can hear the stirring of the cattle in the adjoining corral suddenly drowned out by the bawl of the calf now overpowered by the cowboys--now freed to hobble off to join the others. I wonder if animal rights activists still permit branding of cattle in such a manner. It does seem cruel when I think about it, but then it was just an accepted part of life for cattlemen.


I sometimes had the very important job of recording the proceedings. As they branded each calf they would call out "heifer" or "steer" and I would make a tally mark in the book so that Dad would know how many calves were born that spring. Each tally mark represented cash that could help pay down the grocery bill at the local market or help make the land payment or pay next year's taxes.

Yes, the tax assessor came out to the ranch every year and sat down with Dad and he made an accounting of all of his livestock to determine his taxes for that year. I can see Dad now mulling over his profits that never seemed to stretch quite as far as he wished. But he was a good provider. We didn't have a lot of extras, but we didn't go to bed hungry. If I missed a meal, it was my own choice because I was tired of one more supper of bread and milk. Funny thing---once in a while I will break some homemade bread into a bowl and pour milk over it and sit down and ENJOY it and fondly remember my childhood.

A Legacy of Work

As I have been reviewing photos from my family from past years, I was struck with what a hard working family I had. When I have had the time to put their story together in picture form, I will share some of that rich inheritance with you. I also thought about my husband and children. Our children have a great legacy of work as an outgrowth of past family experiences. I see it in each one of you. Others have seen it as well. I have been told often what a valuable asset, your wonderful work ethic, you have all displayed, and that is due in large measure to your opportunities to work with your father.

I don't think we ever drove a car that worked when we brought it home. Well, there may have been one or two that just needed an oil change or a simple fix but Verlin knew what they needed to get them running. When he did end up with a nice looking, nice running vehicle, he always sold them! "Maybe we can keep the next one" he would say.

I must admit that over the years I complained A LOT and reminded Verlin that we probably could have been driving a new car if we had used all the money he put into broken cars and parts plus his labor (and yours) to fix them. He reminded me of two things that always shut me up. He said, first, that he was building and selling cars so that he could afford to get the snowmobiles and boats, etc. to have fun together as a family. That was a very strong motive for him. Second, he gently reminded me that he wasn't really building a car--he was building a boy. When I sit back now I get a little teary eyed thinking of what a wonderful job he did at building some amazing men and women that I am honored to call my children.

Here is just a short preview of the tools of his trade(s) and a sprinkling of the product of your efforts. (Most of you probably drove one or more of these vehicles.)I think I may have found one toy that he didn't really have to do much work on for you guys to have hours of fun---once he got the boat running!

Sands of Time

Time marches on, like sand through the hourglass. I was reminded this week of the passage of time in my own life. About a year ago, I was combing my hair and was struck with horror as I realized I had a bald spot on the crown of my head--about the size of a half dollar. When did that happen?! It had come silently on cat's paws. While I took meticulous care to be sure the spot was covered by combed over hair, I faced the impending reality that if this condition progressed my pride would be gone and I would have to accept the fact that my head may be exposed to the world.

I did a bit of research about this condition. I began with a term that I have learned in my medical transcription, and sure enough, the definition of alopecia seemed to accurately describe my condition. Sometimes it is brought on by the presence of an autoimmune disease and sometimes it is the result of experiencing trauma. I knew that I had indeed experienced a traumatic event and hoped this was the cause rather than an autoimmune disease. For some reason hair growth stops and it may or may not be restored, but if it does it will take as much as a year to get new growth.

Oh well,life goes on. I decided since there wasn't much I could do about it, I would just tolerate it. At first I was very self conscious about it. I especially did not like to be caught outdoors in the wind. So what did I do a couple months later? I went to Wood Badge and spent most of a week outdoors with about 65 other people. No big deal. Actually I only thought of it occasionally, but I was glad to have a hat.


As is obvious in this picture, I was not always successful in keeping my head covered; but that was then and this is now. Over the last few weeks I have realized that the bald spot is not as noticeable. In its place is a patch of gray hair, however thin.


This experience has certainly put things in perspective for me. Today when I look in the mirror, I can see quite a few more gray hairs than I had a couple years ago. I can say that those have come on gradually, and my children can probably each count the ones that they helped put there. I did not think that I would be grateful for gray hair. I now just consider the alternative and count my blessings