“My farm has been in our family for four generations, and I’d always planned for my daughter to take it over someday. But, I don’t know what’s going to become of it if those permits are approved.”

That’s what I overheard a man say at a recent Hennessey meeting about the permit application for locating proposed commercial waste pits a few miles north and east of US 81, and SH 51.

I was born and raised in Oklahoma City, and every year we went to the Missouri because both set of grandparents lived on family farms there, My sister, who was seven years older than me, loved to ride the horse at my Aunt Lena’s house. But not me, because I was allergic. Well, and afraid of horses, and all animals. That’s why going to the bathroom at night at Aunt Lena’s house was always scary since that’s when their cows always came up next to the house. But, Momma walked me to the outhouse, while my sister laughed at me.

The best part of going to Aunt Lena’s was when she’d let me turn the old separator until my arms would wear out. I’ll never forget the first time I drank some of that milk. Yep, I was expecting it would be ice cold from the refrigerator milk.

So, when we moved to Hennessey in 1978, to run Bill’s family newspaper, I was totally out of my element. Especially when it came to stock shows, and me taking photos cause Bill had to go to his paying job in OKC until we could pay him. That’s when I was at the Cow Palace taking a photo of the grand champion pig that decided to run between my legs.

However, while Lester Hill was still laughing, he managed to help me up.

Wearing a wrap-around skirt to a stock show wasn’t a good idea.

Somehow between long work hours we managed to make good friends who lived in town, and some who lived out in the country. Those relationships came about mainly due to the 1980s Pat Hennessey Celebrations.

It was also at one of those events when I met Ray Shimanek. He was one of the street gunfighters, and fired his rifle at the ground, but somehow those pellets missed my skirt, and landed near my leg causing my pantyhose to disintegrate. Yet another bad wardrobe choice.

Although I could never have been a farm wife, and my husband couldn’t have been a farmer, we both admired all that they did, and do, and how they do it.

Just this week a youngerthan- me farmer friend was telling me how much he loves to bale hay.

Hey, I get it, Doyle. Farmers are human.

So are newspaper people.

I almost cried during a meeting when an elderly man said, “I just want to be able to drink my water! I have a hand-dug well, and a solar pump out there. You can go out there any day of the week with a cup, and drink that water as good as any water you could buy.”