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| It's never too early to teach them how to take care of the farm equipment! (My dad and my son Max in the spring of 2013 at the family farm.) |
I have lived in the village for the past five years, but Whitehouse always has been home to me. I grew up on the Conklin family farm on Schadel Road -- the fourth generation to raise crops, animals and babies on these 40 acres.
I rode my bike to soccer practice and games, and to Oak Openings with the Whitehouse fourth-graders. I swam in the village quarry as WIOT blared over the speakers. I got chewing gum from the Gum Man at Hope United Methodist Church, and I was confirmed at Community of Christ Lutheran Church.
I graduated from Anthony Wayne High School in 1992, with academic honors and the privilege to be the keynote speaker at commencement. I high-stepped down our streets with the Marching Generals (in full wool uniform no matter the weather or temperature) and was voted senior bandsman of the year. I was first chair in symphonic band and among the merry noisemakers in pep band. I acted in school plays and wrote for the school newspaper.
I drove a rusty-yet-reliable station wagon to school, mostly so that I could collect a bunch of other country kids along the way. I had to park it in just the right place at the farm, leaving wide enough lanes in the stone driveway for my father's tractor-trailer rigs to get through.
Conklin Trucking hauled grain and fertilizer for local farmers to area silos. To this day the smell of diesel fuel and the sound of gears shifting has an oddly settling effect on me. My dad, Jim Conklin, had been driving truck since he was barely an adult, and he even got a rig for my mother, Debbie Conklin. I grew up seeing both my parents work hard, with their minds and bodies, while also running the family farm in a self-sustaining way.
My paternal grandparents and great-aunt lived in homes right next door. Love and security and big molasses cookies were just a short path through the alfalfa field. We all worked together and shared the bounty. We had massive gardens. We had chickens and fresh eggs. We butchered steers and pigs, we baled straw and hay, and prepared canned goods.
So. Much. Work.
My family knows what it's like to change with the times, with the economy, with age, with opportunity. We've sacrificed for greater goods. We have convinced ourselves that it's not an optical illusion that traffic is driving through the nearby fields -- it's just the State Route 24 expansion.
My dad sold his trucks and drove for Kuhlman Corp. in Toledo, serving proudly in the Teamsters union and retiring a few years ago. My mother went to Lourdes College and Trinity Seminary to become a Lutheran pastor, serving at Community of Christ Church in Whitehouse and at her current call at Peace Church in Bowling Green. She was executive director of the Toledo-Lucas County Homelessness Board and is interim director of the Harbor House shelter in Toledo.
But they still live in the little white farm house. My oldest son is Chief Lawn Mower and Garage Roof Fixer there, learning the ropes and continuing the family's legacy. My youngest son is content to play on a tree swing and throw rocks into the fountain.
My favorite time of year at the farm is in spring, when one of the neighboring Weimer farmers is turning over the dirt in our fields. There is no smell like it, fresh and rich, full of promise. No matter how many changes we have experienced through the last seasons, we start fresh each year and keep moving forward.
Serving on the Whitehouse village council, I promise to keep turning over those chances for renewal and growth. I don't know any other way to work than hard.
