Almost 20 years ago we moved back from Milwaukee to be close to the rural land of my youth. I loved the city. I love art! Plays! Music! Theater! Paintings! Architecture! Film! I admit. I was scared of living far away from these. Little did I know the kind of art I would discover when I moved back to the area in which I was born. I found out things about my roots that I thought I knew, but never really did. I now vibrate with the living art of storytelling.

To that point. One of the things about small towns is the ubiquitous breakfast or dinner fundraiser. Shortly after we moved back home, we read in the paper that money was needed for the survival of the Big Foot Airfield on the Big Foot Prairie near the Illinois state line. The paper announced a pancake breakfast fundraiser.  We decided we’d be neighborly, and support the local pilots and their entourage. Actually, it wasn’t a hard decision.  We’re an easy touch. There isn’t a pancake breakfast our family won’t go to. We’ll always throw some money in a bucket for a cause and get some pancakes off that rotating horizontal grill the size of the Big Ben Clock. We make the fluffy light carb holders swim in melted butter and syrup and watch the sausage links float like a broken log jam on our created lake the color of freshly baked bread.

Anyway, the day of the Airfield breakfast, was no exception. Surrounded by small planes parked on the runway bordered by cornfields, we bought our tickets and completed our trip down the buffet line bantering all the way. We had secured seats at a table under the tent, and looking out at the plethora of silver propellers, our hearty appetites were ready to attack our filled plates. Just then we noticed an old codger coming from the buffet line balancing his plate, silverware and coffee. Not wanting him to eat alone, we pulled out one of the wooden folding chairs and asked him to join us.

We had our “good mornings” and got settled in. I then asked “what’s your name?”.  To this he answered “Dennis Dutton.” After introducing my husband Tom, daughter Rosa and myself, I said, “I wonder if I should know your family.  If it helps. I am a Palmer. I grew up on County K. My folks were Ruth and Lyle Palmer.” At that moment, I could not believe the size of Dennis’s eyes when he heard “Palmer!”. He bellowed. “Wow! You’re related to Lyle Palmer and his brother Al? Could those guys play baseball! When I was 12 years old, I used to mow the baseball field in Darien where your dad and uncle played. I took great pride in being able to do that. I never missed a game they played. I’ve never ever seen a pitcher-catcher team like those two!”  

I was incredulous. I don’t remember much of the rest of our conversation but that left me speechless. Can you believe that? I was almost 70 years old. I remember Dad playing in that Darien ballfield when I was five, so that guy was probably close to 80. Dennis still remembered Dad and Uncle Allyn after all those years. 

The next day I drove over to my cousin Mike’s and told him the story of how Dennis Dutton remembered our fathers. Mike answered, “Yeh, our dads really left their mark; didn’t they? But there is nothing like that garden story is there?” I said, “Garden story? What garden story? I don’t remember that one!!”  Mike went on “You don’t? Let me tell you. When we lived down at the house on the corner of those busy roads, before it was our turn to move onto the homestead, we had a huge garden. Dad started the spring grateful and pleased as any farmer could be when, despite bad temperatures or lack of rain, all things finally were growing. He was a farmer. He wasn’t proud. He just glowed with gratitude at the wonder of it all. Tomatoes, broccoli, carrots, asparagus, green beans, Brussel sprouts, sweet peas, you name it, it started beautifully.  The only problem was that Snuddens pastured their cows in the field right next to that garden.  They had a cow that, I swear, must have had a gene that made it want to eat only vegetables. 

That cow continually bent over the fence and crunched away at whatever she could reach that was gorgeously green. Dad got so frustrated!  He tried everything to try to stop it! He hollered! He banged pots and pans! He ran at the cow. If it was rhubarb in the spring, break the fence and crunch, crunch, crunch. As summer kept moving along so did this cow’s hunger for potato leaves, beets, anything green. The cow was determined to fill each and every one of its’ stomachs. Poor Dad! None of his hollering, banging, running, waving, fence mending worked.

Then the clincher arrived. No one remembers what green that cow was going for this time. All we remember was that my patient father had had it!  He ran toward the house. He grabbed and his hands rotated that perfect size and shaped rock which he’d placed on the steps outside the back door. He thought of us kids needing to be feed. He resisted the temptation no longer. He hurled that rock and whipped a fastball pitch that hit that cow in the middle of the forehead straight above the nose!  I kid you not! That cow collapsed to his side rolled on his back with all four legs facing skyward! Dead as the proverbial doornail! Yes, that was positive proof of Dad’s perfect aim! It is something that could hardly be denied. But be sure too that that moment was also positive proof of Dad’s character!

He pulled himself together and with his red face and red Wisconsin hat in his hands, he crossed the road to Harvey Snudden’s. With as much humility as he could muster, he explained exactly what had just happened!  He finished off his confession by saying, ‘Harvey, I know I took that animal’s life, so of course I’ll pay for it!’  Now, you’ve heard stories of neighborliness among farmers but Harvey’s answer was the best example you’ll ever hear!   He said, ‘Al we can butcher that cow out and keep it for ourselves. You don’t have to make any amends for being such a good pitcher!  You’ve given our Zenda community a story that will put us on the map a very long time! We owe YOU something for that.’”

When my cousin finished, we just stood there smiling at each other with tears running down our cheeks.That night I invited my family to take hands around the dinner table. And looking into the eyes of each of my loved ones as I said a simple prayer. “Dear God. Thanks for our parents who worked so hard to put food, especially vegetables, on our table.  Thanks too for the nourishing loaf of language that is broken and shared tonight. Amen!”

                                                                                                                                                                           Dona Palmer 11/20/21