April 2006
Spring of 2006 arrived gently, as if the farm itself was trying to soothe us. After the chaos of winter—the pulp wood fire, the poisoned ducks, the constant tension with Dale—we were worn thin, but not defeated. What held us together were the small routines, the spiritual rhythms that shaped each day with a sense of purpose.
Every morning before class, I sat at the dining room table and read my Bible, trying to take in the calm before heading out into the world. My mom read her women’s devotional and prayed before bed, always marking verses that spoke of protection and encouragement. My dad studied in the afternoon after dinner, then read again before going to sleep. Between the three of us, Scripture framed the entire day—morning, afternoon, and night. Verses like Proverbs 3:5–6, Philippians 4:13, and Isaiah 41:10 lived in the house the way old furniture does: part of the structure, part of the air, part of what kept the ground from shifting beneath our feet.
Looking back, I realize we treated God almost like an insurance policy—pray enough, read enough, do enough—and He would surely shield us. At the time, though, it felt like simple obedience and trust. We believed He would protect us, and we clung to that belief because the alternative was fear. And honestly, there’s nothing wrong with holding such a belief. The trouble comes only when it swells into a dangerous sense of invincibility.
Our church small group played a huge role in lifting that fear. They prayed over my parents, visited often, and called frequently to check in. They knew everything. There was no need to hide or downplay anything; they were the kind of brothers and sisters in Christ who willingly bore one another’s burdens. My mom had a close friend she confided in as well—a woman who asked, with genuine fear in her voice, whether we were worried that Dale would pull a gun again. My mom would answer her the same way every time: “We pray for Dale daily. It will be alright.”
And that steady posture—faith, community, prayer—kept us from slipping into darker thoughts.
As spring settled in, life grew lighter in small but meaningful ways. The nights were still chilly, but the days warmed enough that you could walk outside without rushing back in. Trees filled with leaves almost overnight. The ducks strutted around happily, pecking at bugs emerging from the softening earth. Even the alpacas seemed more energetic, humming at us with extra enthusiasm when we walked into the barn.
We didn’t feel isolated anymore, not the way we had after winter. Between small group support, the energy of spring, and the normal rhythm of my college schedule—wake up, devotions, class, come home, work on the house, dinner, chores, TV or bed—life took on a steadier shape. We still talked about Dale, especially right after the pulp wood fire, but the conversations tapered off as the days stretched longer and the farm filled with movement and sound. We seldom saw him anymore; maybe just a handful of times while driving past his property. Always at a distance. Always enough to remind us to stay alert, but not enough to dominate our lives.
Must See TV
Thursday nights were a highlight. My parents’ small group had moved their meeting night from Thursdays to Wednesdays so they wouldn’t miss Must See TV on NBC. From 8:00 to 9:00 PM, laughter filled the farmhouse.
At eight, My Name Is Earl came on—a show about Earl Hickey, the well-meaning petty crook on a quest to right every wrong he’d ever done after discovering karma from a Carson Daly interview. Every episode was some ridiculous attempt to fix a mess he himself had created. It was silly, heartwarming, and exactly the kind of humor we needed.
At eight-thirty, The Office aired, the mockumentary about the Scranton branch of Dunder Mifflin. The absurdity of Michael Scott and the dry humor of the entire cast had my parents—and me—laughing harder than anything else that year.
Those Thursday nights felt cozy and safe. My dad would make a big bowl of popcorn—his famous green bowl—and sometimes we’d share a box of orange creamsicles. Charley, my mom’s cocker spaniel, sat near my dad’s chair waiting for the moment Dad would flick a kernel toward him. Charley would leap up and snag it out of the air with sniper-like precision. For that hour, everything heavy fell away.
The Jerk
Life on the farm also had its own built-in humor. One warm afternoon, when the grass was high and bugs were buzzing—much to the ducks’ delight—my dad went out to mow the lawn. He, my mom, and I stood around the old push mower, the one that took about a hundred pulls to start. After wrestling with it, my dad finally muttered, “All it needs is one big jerk to get it started.”
Without missing a beat, my mom looked at him, deadpan, and said, “Well, have at it, Bob.”
It took a solid minute before the joke landed, and when it did, he groaned as my mom and I burst into laughter. We all took turns pulling the cord. It didn’t take one big jerk—just three regular ones.
Of course, even in these moments of normalcy, we watched our surroundings. You couldn’t stand outside for long without glancing toward the fence line, where Dale’s property was visible. Habits born from fear linger even when fear quiets down.
The Rocks in the Yard
One day, driving home from college, I spotted my dad near the alpaca barn arranging rocks into a stacked pile that looked suspiciously like an altar. I got out and asked, “Dad, what’s with the pile of stones?”
He wiped his brow and explained that when he was ten, there had been a white picket fence around the farmhouse. Aunt Mary used to ask him to place rocks under the fence line to keep chickens from sneaking into the yard. The fence was long gone, but the rocks remained—hidden, half-buried, and constantly getting caught in the lawn mower blades.
He’d spent the day digging them out of the dirt, one by one.
“If I had known I was going to pick up all these rocks forty-five years later,” he said, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t have done it.”
His tone was lighthearted, the memory a fond one. The pile really did look like an altar—flat stones stacked carefully, unintentionally balanced in a way that felt symbolic. Watching him work connected me to the farm’s history in a way that books or stories never could. It wasn’t just land. It was layers of work, decades apart.
Cleaning Out the Wash House
Our spring cleaning also led us into the wash house, a standalone building on the north side of the house near the carport. It smelled like old wood and dust—the scent of forgotten decades. We pulled out items that had been stored there for fifty years or more.
My dad lit up as he recognized things from his childhood: the old washboard used before electricity came to the farmhouse, the axe and cutting board Aunt Mary used to butcher chickens, unopened Westinghouse appliances she had received from work—an old toaster, a crock pot, other kitchen gadgets still in their original packaging. There were tools from the 1890s and a two-handed saw that must have cut its way through half the property at some point in its lifetime.
Cleaning out the wash house felt like discovering treasure. Tangible pieces of the farm’s past. We kept the washboard, the tools, and the saw—I still have them.
Baby Geese
Spring also brought new life. For the first time in nine years, baby geese hatched on the farm. The mild winter meant an earlier nesting season, and we followed the nests closely, watching eggs day by day. When the goslings emerged, their little peeps carried through the grass like tiny bells.
Strangely, we kept the baby geese and ducks in an incubator in my parents’ master bedroom closet until they were old enough to go outside. The alpacas never met them, but the sense of life humming everywhere—geese, ducks, alpacas, deer, trees filling out—was energizing. It made the farm feel safe again.
Flavor of Love
One afternoon during herd health day, my dad and I realized my mom had disappeared. After searching the property, I checked the house. The back patio doors led me into a warm, sunlit living room with the windows open just enough to let a soft breeze in.
There sat my mom, eyes wide like she’d been caught committing a crime.
“I want Hoopz to win,” she blurted.
I had no idea what she meant—until I saw the TV. She was watching Flavor of Love, the VH1 dating show where women competed for Flavor Flav’s affection. Instead of roses, contestants received clocks. The winner earned… gold teeth.
I walked in during the recap of Pumpkin spitting on New York. Then Flavor Flav was in Puerto Vallarta with Hoopz and New York, deciding who would win the coveted golden grill.
Somewhere along the way, I sat down beside her, and we both got sucked into the absurdity. Time passed. My dad eventually came looking for us. He stepped into the living room, saw the screen, saw us frozen like guilty teenagers, and we both said, “We want Hoopz to win!”
He shook his head on his way back outside. “I can’t believe you were watching that show,” he muttered.
My mom grinned. “I’m sorry, honey. It’s a guilty pleasure.”
Spring Quiet
By late spring, the farm was in full bloom. The days were long and warm, the animals thriving, the property alive with sound and movement. Things were quiet with Dale—quiet enough to be a blessing, though not quiet enough for us to fully let our guard down. We still glanced toward the fence line. Still watched. Still waited a little.
But the sense of dread no longer lived in the house with us. We didn’t feel alone and isolated. We trusted God. We leaned into our small group. We laughed together. We worked together. We prayed together.