Walking My Father’s Fields

Walking My Father’s Field’s: Love Letters from a Daughter of the Land written by Vernie Lynn Johnson DeMille is the story of growing up close to the land, close to family, and finding the joy in both. It’s a memoir of what can be found when you  slow down, look with the intent to see clearly, and take the time to appreciate all the small and simple things that make us who we are.  Available for advance purchase here.

Tentative release date is March 1, 2012.

Excerpts:

From “Cider Press” pg 62

“I’ve always thought it interesting that something as wonderful as an apple has to be utterly destroyed to make something as wonderful as apple cider.  The same thing happens to grapes for wine, peaches for homemade jam, or the dismantling of a crumbling barn to create the barn wood furniture that William makes in his wood shop.  Something good is always sacrificed when something else is made.  The beauty of a pasture must give way to the beauty of tilled soil if a harvest is to be had.  The beauty of a tree must give way to the beauty of craftsmanship if a home is to be built.  The beauty of youth must give way to age if a life is to be lived fully.

“It’s part of the natural cycle of things.  Life is like a cider press at points of growth.  It presses down against us, squeezing us with anxiety, fear, stress, and pain until we think we can bear no more; and when the pressure eases, we find that if we have borne it well, we are a new creation.”

From “Jungle House” pg 146-147

“As we walked through the Jungle House canopy of trees I could feel his touch on everything.  In the backyard the squirrels were still living in the trees he had planted.  Grandma was faithfully leaving walnuts out for them every morning.  He was still there in the garage where his woodworking tools were hung up collecting dust.

“Grandma changed things over the years after Grandpa passed away.  She gave the tools to a young woodworker whom she knew; she had the wild disarray of the jungle tamed into a nicely landscaped yard and it suited her and the lovely little house that was hiding behind the trees.  Eventually she even redecorated Grandpa’s room.  But in my heart it’s still the Jungle House and to this day whenever I drive or walk through a tunnel of trees I can feel Grandpa with me and I have come to realize that Grandpa wasn’t really in the trees of 1233 Hester Avenue.  The real magic of Grandpa was that he had put the love for the wild in me.”

From “Comfort, Courage, and Crop Failure” pg 220

“Perhaps I’m just too much of a farmer to want to choose the easy path.  Perhaps I have seen enough of what happens in our lives when we don’t fight for what means the most to us.  We have experienced many crop failures in our life together.  If we were smarter, and certainly saner, we would probably give up farming altogether, but there is something in the soil that always pulls us back.  We picked up the pieces of that burnt out greenhouse, we raked up the debris and tilled the earth again.  And when we plunged our hands back into that rich, black midwestern soil, we found something that we thought we’d lost: comfort.  Because, you see, comfort wasn’t to be found on the green grass doing nothing; comfort wasn’t to be found in standing around waiting to be saved.   Comfort was in the labor for something that will last well beyond our own lives.  Comfort was in knowing we had the courage to race into a losing battle and fight for something that was precious to us.”

From “Finding Home” pg 275-276

“As we drove slowly up Colorado mountain passes made navigable by past generations and crossed rivers with ease on well-built Mississippi bridges, as I stood at the feet of heroes carved on a South Dakota mountainside and walked reverently down a worn forest path in New York state I came to grasp what my parents were giving to me.  I reached out and took it with both hands, savored and remembered it.  But I’m not sure I fully understood what I had been given until I sat down to pen these letters and to give the feelings of my heart words and freedom.

“As we traversed back roads and cityscapes, trees and titanic columns of steel, mile by mile, and state by state by parents gave me a homeland.

“They gave me America.”

Reviews:

“Walking My Father’s Fields had me in tears more times than any book I can remember reading.  Beautifully written, Vernie DeMille’s book opens up her heart and her family, plumbing the depths of nostalgia and relational reality.  This little tome will make you stop and smell the roses.  We all need that from time to time.  Thank you, Vernie, for this treasure.  Everyone should read it.”   ~Joel Salatin, Polyface Farm, Swoope, VA