Stan was a good neighbor. He was a good teacher, rancher, and a unique individual. All of my kids worked for him at least one summer. They worked for us too, but their dad believed that all kids should spend some time working for someone besides family. Stan and his wife, Lucille, never had kids but they mentored a lot of local teens and were commonly known as Uncle Stan and Aunt Ceil. When Stan retired from the rodeo arena, he hung out behind the chutes and helped the rookies and high schoolers. Lucille was always in the crow’s nest doing the secretary job.
Stan preferred to hire women for his custom haying work; said they were easier on equipment. They might not know how to repair breakdowns but they had the good sense to stop and check when something didn’t sound right. Many of the ranches where he put up hay were east of our place and, since he lived west, he had to pass by on the way to work. He just picked up the help on his way if that was convenient, so the kids learned to watch for him every morning.
Stan and my kids’ dad had somehow arrived at a non-verbal agreement. Bob was a welder, and pretty good at general repairs. If Stan had a breakdown in the field, he just dropped the whatever in the shop as he went by of an evening and Bob had it ready to go the next morning. Once, upon arriving home from wherever we had been, one of our pickups was gone. Bob just said, “Well, Stan must have needed it.” Sure enough, next morning it was back in the yard with Stan at the wheel.
Neighboring was a way of life back then. Bob had resurrected a potato digger from out behind his own dad’s barn, and proceeded to plow up a segment of meadow where he planted potatoes, melons and corn to supplement our regular garden. With a houseful of kids and hired help to feed, we used every bit of the thousand or so pounds of potatoes that we raised yearly.
Jim was our neighbor to the west, and also had a big potato patch, so he’d borrow the digger for his own crop and then Stan would take it to use at his place. It got so when tater digging time came, we had to call around to see where the digger had ended up, but that was no big deal.
Eventually, the kids left home and we didn’t need that much garden anymore. Bob’s health failed, and we all got older. Stan retired, Bob died, and Jim’s family moved away. Well, life changes you know, while we’re figuring out how to adapt. My youngest son is on the home ranch now, I remarried and moved, and the family is somewhat scattered. Stan died too. His wife remained on their ranch for a time but it was eventually sold. My son called one evening to say he’d gone to the auction. Glad things brought a good price for Lucille. He said, “I didn’t need anything, but I bought a potato digger. A couple of hundred dollars seemed pretty cheap for the memories.”