July 8

Ninety-five years ago today, a woman rushed into the barn on a farm west of Caledonia, MN to let the farmer there know that he had a healthy newborn son. The woman was my great-grandma, Augusta Betz, who had just helped deliver her grandson. The farmer she went to give the good news to was my grandpa, Charlie Betz. And that healthy newborn boy, was my dad, Earl William Betz. The farm where this birth took place is now owned by the Banse family. The farm is about a mile away from the farm where I grew up many years later. My grandparents rented the farm where Earl was born back in 1917. Earl was the first of two boys born to Charlie and Clara Betz.

I'm not sure why my grandparents chose the name Earl. My dad came from a long line of Karl (Charlie) and Johann(es) Betz's. The name Earl means "noble" or "nobleman". One definition of noble means "born into the upper class". That certainly did not describe my dad. He was born into a family of humble farmers. But another definition of noble means "possessing high morals". That definitely fits the man that my dad was. He was honest, trustworthy, respectable, faithful and honorable. As for his middle name of William, I am only guessing, but am willing to bet that it was used to honor his mother's parents: William and Minnie (Wilhelmena) Zibrowski. The name William means protector. Earl William = Noble Protector. I'd say that my grandparents did a great job of choosing a fitting name for my dad.

Within a couple of years after my dad was born, his family moved from the farm where he was born to another farm. The new farm they rented was about a mile in the opposite direction of the farm I would later grow up on. My dad always referred to that farm as "The Hosch Place". He called it that because it was owned by the Hosch family. But when I was little I always thought he was calling it "The Hush Place". As a little girl, I had a Little Golden Book called Hush, Hush it's Sleepytime that I loved. I pictured all the sleepy animals in the book going to sleep at "The Hush Place".

I don't know a lot about my dad's youth. His brother, Dale was born in 1919 and they always farmed with my grandparents. My great grandma, Augusta, lived with them. They never had a lot growing up, but they worked hard and "got by". When my dad was in his late teens or early 20's, the Spellmeyer family asked my grandparents, Charlie and Clara Betz to buy their farm. The story that I heard was that the Spellmeyers wanted my grandparents (and my dad and uncle) to buy the farm because they knew what hard workers they were and knew they would take wonderful care of it. That farm they bought is the farm that I grew up on.

I've told the story of how my parents met, broke up and got back together again. For about the first year or so after Mother and Daddy were married, they lived in a house in Caledonia. They then moved out to the family farm with my grandparents and uncle. There were two kitchens in the house, separated only by a door. My mom had her kitchen and my grandma had hers. They each made their own meals. When my two oldest siblings, Kathy and David, were little, they would check out what my mom was cooking. If they didn't like it, they would push their highchairs through the door, out to Grandma's kitchen table and eat what she had cooked!

My parents raised all of us kids in that farm house. They were married for 63 years when my dad died. When I think of all the things that happened to Daddy over the years, it's a wonder that he lived to the age of 91. In fact, in his later years, I started to call him a cat, because he had escaped death enough times that it seemed that he must have nine lives.

On November 17, 1970 (when I was only 4 years old), Daddy suffered a stroke. My siblings have since told me that whenever the phone rang when Daddy was in the hospital, they were afraid to answer it because they thought it was my mom calling to say he had died. Some how he survived the stroke and came back home. His right hand was some what crippled after that and he always said that he felt "light-headed" for many, many years following the stroke. But it didn't stop him from farming. When I was in about 2nd grade, Daddy had a twisted intestine. He had to have a large portion of it removed. I can still picture the huge incision he had in his stomach. I remember my mom changing the bandages on it for months. Several years later, he had a tractor tip over on top of him. He was afraid to jump off as it was tipping. Two things saved him: the fact that he was so skinny and the fact that the old tractor had a springy seat. My brother, David, who saw the accident happen, wiggled the seat and Daddy inched his way out. He was black and blue from head to toe, but had no lasting injuries. Another time, Daddy was in the pen with some cattle. A young bull put his head under a steer or heifer and threw it into the air. As if came down, it grazed my dad's shoulder, throwing him to the ground. If it had come down inches closer to him, he would have been crushed.

There were many other health related scares my dad had over the years, but he always pulled through. Even when I got the call to hurry to the farm because he was dying, I half expected him to pull through yet again. So many times he'd been taken to the doctor feeling horrible. When the doctor would come into the room and ask how he was, Daddy's response would be, "Oh not so bad!"  That was probably his response when God asked him how he was when he arrived at Heaven's gate. "Oh, not so bad!"

There are a few things I will never forget about my dad:

He hated leftovers. He loved to dance jigs for his grandkids. He called my ghost shaped Halloween cookie an auger cookie. He would choose a molasses or peanut cookie over a chocolate chip cookie every time. He loved to go for car rides through the valley to see the deer. The way pronounced Houston County so it sounded like Who-ston County. The way he said crick instead of creek. His crooked signature after he had his stroke. The way he set up stakes and practiced parallel parking so he could pass his road test and not be restricted in how far from home he drove after his stroke. Him driving the H-tractor with the weed sprayer behind it. How he would tell me what bird was singing which song. The meadowlark was his favorite bird. His well worn bible. His old truck with the floorboards worn out. His pale green leisure suit. The way he'd laugh so hard he couldn't finish telling a story. His sweater. The way he said, "Evan is a good boy!" whenever Evan would get in trouble for being a stinker when he was little. Hearing him tell me, "I like you" a few days before he died. All the things he built in his workshop. The way he remembered the words to Come, Lord Jesus even when it was hard for him to say much any more. Him saying that it wouldn't be long until the snow was flying...even during the hottest days of summer. His bucket sun hats he wore in his later years. His "shit-kickers". His crooked stance as he got older. His "shitty grin". His love for his family.

I love and miss my "Noble Protector" Daddy, Earl William Betz. It was truly an honor to be his daughter.