I can see you sitting in your favorite chair. I can hear your voice as you talk about the state of the crops, or the condition of the cattle market. I can recall your playful tone when I called and said, "It's Joni", and you responded, "It is you, isn't it?". Or when it was Mom's turn, you handed her the phone, and said, "It's Jopey."
I have memories of you crawling under whatever tractor decided it was good to break down during planting season--or a combine with the same crazy idea during harvest.
Your implement store cap, bill upturned, shading your face, but never stopping the dust of the Plains from coating your face. The grease from a thousand and one repairs never completely erased from under your nails. The farmer's tan, earned from decades of working under the sweltering Kansas sun. Wrestling and roughly rubbing down a newborn calf to coax warmth and life into its little body, and helping clean up the back porch after the baby was safely returned to its mama. A lifetime of dealing with the droughts, floods, snows, storms, and crazily fluctuating market prices etching themselves into the lines of your dear, caring face.
I hear your laughter as you share the latest "overhead in the coffee shop" joke, or as you read a humorous tidbit from whatever newspaper you have in hand.
I reminisce about making the trek to church, no matter what the weatherman said. I see you sitting at the head of the table, thanking God for providing another meal. In my mind's eye, there is a permanent photo album of church memories: Sunday school class, teaching the children another "Did you know?", late-night board meetings, sitting at the end of the pew, and giving me "the look" if I misbehaved. Standing (and in later years sitting, when standing was no longer possible) at the church doors, greeting everyone with a welcoming smile and a word or two to let every individual know they were welcome.
Too many memories to count...
Journeys to Colorado. Fishing in the mountain streams. Those perilous, rough trips in the Jeep, as we made our way slowly up the seemingly impassable mountain trails.
Sitting at the kitchen table, eating Life cereal, because that's what my daddy eats.
Seeing you in the stands as I struggled with my confidence as a basketball player, and your words of encouragement after you conferred with the coach. We both knew I loved to play, but I was never going to be a sports standout.
Always looking for your face in the audience, and many times knowing the farm had taken precedence over a play, sporting event, or music festival. But also knowing you would always want to know how it went.
The feeling of your dear, thin hand as we said our last "in person" goodbyes. And the sound of your feeble voice in that final, precious phone call.
You are forever in my heart, Daddy. Two years is nothing in light of eternity.
