rangerdog
Well-known member
My farm to me is not just land
Where bare unpainted buildings stand -
To me, my farm is nothing less
Than all created loveliness.
My farm is not where
I must soil
My hands in endless dreary toil
But where, through seed and swelling pod
I've learned to walk and talk with God.
My farm, to me, is not a place
Outmoded by the modern race
For here, I think, I just see less
Of evil, greed, and selfishness.
My farm's a haven – here dwells rest,
Security and happiness -
Whate'er befalls the world outside
Here faith and hope and love abide.
And so my farm is not just land
Where bare unpainted buildings stand -
To me, my farm is nothing less
Than all God's hoarded loveliness.
There is a port of no return, where ships
May ride at anchor for a little space
And then, some starless night, the cable slips,
Leaving an eddy at the mooring place . . .
Gulls, veer no longer. Sailor, rest your oar.
No tangled wreckage will be washed ashore.
My dad passed away on 17 January. He was buried in the Virginia Veteran's Cemetery with full military honors (honor guard, taps, 21 gun salute, flag).
He was my fishing partner, best friend, mentor, and confidant. He was a Great American. He was a rtired Naval Submariner; a WWII veteran. A fisherman, a farmer, a carpenter. He was also a retired Deputy Secretary from DOE.
He was loved because he touched each person with whom he came in contact. He was and still is loved.
He had 4 children, 10 grandchildren, and 12 great grand children.
When the young sailor handed me the flag and said what he said, I was looking directly into his eyes. They were the exact same hazel gray color of my daddy's. I was doing my best to maintain my military bearing but my chin was quivering and my eyes were tearing up as I noticed.
"Rangerdog" John
Where bare unpainted buildings stand -
To me, my farm is nothing less
Than all created loveliness.
My farm is not where
I must soil
My hands in endless dreary toil
But where, through seed and swelling pod
I've learned to walk and talk with God.
My farm, to me, is not a place
Outmoded by the modern race
For here, I think, I just see less
Of evil, greed, and selfishness.
My farm's a haven – here dwells rest,
Security and happiness -
Whate'er befalls the world outside
Here faith and hope and love abide.
And so my farm is not just land
Where bare unpainted buildings stand -
To me, my farm is nothing less
Than all God's hoarded loveliness.
There is a port of no return, where ships
May ride at anchor for a little space
And then, some starless night, the cable slips,
Leaving an eddy at the mooring place . . .
Gulls, veer no longer. Sailor, rest your oar.
No tangled wreckage will be washed ashore.
My dad passed away on 17 January. He was buried in the Virginia Veteran's Cemetery with full military honors (honor guard, taps, 21 gun salute, flag).
He was my fishing partner, best friend, mentor, and confidant. He was a Great American. He was a rtired Naval Submariner; a WWII veteran. A fisherman, a farmer, a carpenter. He was also a retired Deputy Secretary from DOE.
He was loved because he touched each person with whom he came in contact. He was and still is loved.
He had 4 children, 10 grandchildren, and 12 great grand children.
When the young sailor handed me the flag and said what he said, I was looking directly into his eyes. They were the exact same hazel gray color of my daddy's. I was doing my best to maintain my military bearing but my chin was quivering and my eyes were tearing up as I noticed.
"Rangerdog" John
