Knolltop Farm Wife

Hauling things out of my parent’s farmhouse to sell in a yard sale was how my sister and I spent our Memorial Day weekend.  With each dust-covered box, we found a treasure trove of history we were just now discovering about our mom. Sorting through files and photos, we were seeing the dimension of a self-less mom grow into a person we never knew existed. I mentioned in an earlier column about the things we never knew about our mom, but the sacrifice of her life has never been clearer. Growing up, stories of her college days were plentiful but several details were left out as she concentrated on raising a family and helping her husband of six decades run a farm.  We knew she was a successful vocalist in college, but we never knew she recorded an album until we pulled out an old 78 vinyl record and listened to her lyrical voice through the crackle and pop of the old relic. We knew she was the first woman on the Michigan State livestock judging team, but we had no idea she wa...

Sitting in a motel room in Princeton, West Virginia, is not where I expected to be this week after a long two months of being on the road covering shows.  But here I am looking out the window at beautiful mountains in full color. My daughter was headed to cover the South Carolina State Fair when she called with her car broken down on the side of the highway at 8 pm on a Friday night.  We got the car safely towed to a shop but we had to get her and her assistant headed to Columbia, SC.  Because her assistant was also a Virginia Tech graduate, Wytheville, Virginia was a friendly place to be stranded.  Several phone calls later and helpful texts from the exhibitors in Columbia, South Carolina, the two girls were on their way in a borrowed car from Virginia Tech Dairy Judging Team coach, Dr. Katharine Knowlton. Thankful for a generous judging coach who has made a career of teaching and loving the next generation of our ag leaders I was elated when I heard the show ...

By Melissa Hart Imagine four-wheel drive John Deere tractors gathering cobwebs in a pole barn with doors that hadn’t been opened in months.  Can you see fallow farm ground growing up with weeds and annoying brush?  Or farm lanes that are grown over because there was no traffic in or out of the farm. The grease guns are never used, the farm implements rusting away behind the barn and no fuel trucks in and out of the driveway for lack of need.  The neighborhood equipment dealer would cease selling new tractors, and electric lawn mowers would be the new hot item.  The parts manager would also serve as the bookkeeper, the part time mechanic and the custodian.  There would be one grain elevator to serve the entire county, one farm store would be able to serve three counties and the seed dealer and chemical salesman would be an online store somewhere in Kansas.  Stockyards would close up, vibrant diners that served local farmers would shutter their doors and ...

 By Melissa Hart As I look at my keyboard, I see wrinkled hands and chipped nail polish on a 56-year-old body that has endured and enjoyed five decades as a female.  Living an imperfect life, I am a daughter, wife, mom and aunt.  And I will never be able to change that. It’s how God made me. But lately there is a loud minority of folks who want the privilege to change their gender and are trying to make the rest of us think it’s as natural as a bull sniffing the rump of a cow in heat. There is a young college athlete who was born a male.  He was created by God as a male and no matter what, his DNA will always be XY. With that chromosomal content, he will have the tendency to be a conqueror, a protector and a fighter. But his fight is to become a woman and he is being allowed to compete in the NCAA women’s swimming events, smashing records set by women, as a man. I will not pretend to know what is going through his mind, but I do know that he and everyone who is...

By Melissa Hart  You want me to do what? Produce a magazine four times a year?  I had no experience in magazines, printing, ad design, selling advertising, much less any thoughts about a media kit, cover designs, bleeds, or ad specs. I was a freelance writer.  I knew how to type words in a word document and send it to the newspaper or magazine, but to actually come up with a complete magazine, nope, not for me. I knew I couldn’t come up with editorial content that anyone wanted to read. I knew I would never be able to sell advertising, or come up with a reason why someone should advertise. I knew I would never have the time to sell, write, edit and hire a designer, who was I fooling? Or better yet, what was God thinking? My first reaction to any challenge is fear.  Fear of failure, fear of not knowing what I need to know and fear of people being disappointed in me.  I know I’m not alone, but when I’m sitting in my office and there is no one there to pa...

 By Melissa Hart By the time you are reading this, Pleasant Meadow Farms will have dispersed their herd and the milk pump will never be turned on again by Melvin, Phyllis or Mark Fledderjohann.  When I was asked to write a feature story on this family, my first thought was, ‘ They are selling out, why would I write a feature story about that?’ The Fledderjohanns have been milking Registered Holsteins on their western Ohio farm since 1968 where they provided a living for their families with 70 milk cows. Mark was the only son to come back to the farm where he and his parents have worked together for decades. He has a wife who wants to spend time with him, and two kids who need their dad’s involvement and the demand of the farm has kept him at a distance far too long, so for Mark in his late 50s, it was time to close the chapter on dairy farming. Melvin and Phyllis are in their 80s and while still in great health and with the mental attitude of a couple of 40-year-olds, they t...

 By Melissa Hart   Starch was a staple growing up.  My mom would spend a few afternoons every week standing over an ironing board making sure all of my dad’s clothes were starched and looking crisp.  She didn’t stop there, she would starch her clothes, dad’s hankies, her aprons, doilies, cloth napkins that were used on special occasions and especially the tablecloths that donned the dinner table on Sunday afternoons when we were likely to have company for dinner. Seeing my mom set up her ironing board in the kitchen was a normal part of growing up and I thought all moms did that, until I found out they didn’t. But I did.  Early in our marriage I had a big pile of ironing, just like my mom.  And within the pile, along with my husband’s shirts, his Wrangler jeans, and crocheted doilies were pillowcases.  Again, I thought everyone starched their pillowcases, until I found out they didn’t. This led me to asking mom why on earth we starched pillowca...