My husband Edward was actually born during a raging blizzard on the 16th April 1943. The doctor who delivered him went into the ditch a bit down the highway from the farm where he was born and had to trudge through deep snow the last little bit of the way. Today is cold enough to snow and brought back to my mind the story that was told to me about the birth of Edward. I think he liked hearing that story every time it was told. We still have the rocking chair that his grandmother Kipp sat in rocking him after he was born.
When he was walking his father used to take him to the barn with him in the morning. His mother was barely five feet tall and Ed was a big child and she could hardly carry him once he was a year old. Farms were flexible like that; his Dad built him a big playpen in the barn and that was where he spent his mornings while his Dad did the work that he needed to do there. Before he was 18 months he could climb out of the playpen and his Dad found him trying to milk one of the cows which had stood there patiently while he did that apparently.
I am trying to recall all of those little stories these days. We did sit down and write Ed's story finally after the Lockdown last year but it isn't very long and any of these details that I can recall can also go into the story. I need to put all his pictures in next and will work away at that. Getting all of his projects tied up and distributed is going to take most of the next year I expect. I intend to do my newsletters once I am back as a person. At the moment I am still floating about in the place where people go to grieve.
Edward around 18 months and his brother about ten years of age at the farm.
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