I peeked through the doorway of the small red feed room then climbed into the dimly lit space, my nose full of the rich wholesome fragrance of milled corn, wheat, oats and barley. I sidled up to the figure stooped in the low-ceiled room, “What you doin’ Dad?”

“Getting feed for the sows,” he looked up as he filled a large pail from one of the many hundred-pound burlap bags that lined the floor of the shed. “You can help me fill a basket with corn for them,” he smiled and gently directed me out through the door, latched it with care, and strode towards the corncrib.

I scampered after him trying to keep up with his long strides then focused on keeping my skipping feet on his moving shadow. His shadow stretched behind him in the late afternoon sun making it easy for me to step on it, not to the left or right, not too far behind or ahead. When he slowed down I could hop all over it then run to catch up when he walked faster. I noticed he was carrying the feed pail in his left hand so I clumsily switched my sandbox pail to my left hand, dumping part of my dirt, grass, and cricket collection. No time to grab the crickets – I would lose Dad’s shadow!

At the corncrib he moved a steel prop and swung open one of the outer doors. At the familiar creak of hinges Petunia, our clever barn cat, bounded over and prowled nearby in case a mouse appeared. I didn’t see a mouse but I pounced on two large crickets, dropping them into my pail. Meanwhile Dad used a shovel to loosen some corn through a small opening, finally pulling it back towards us full of bright yellow cobs.

Together we filled a big wooden tomato basket with golden ears. I even put a big cob in with my crickets. Using my thumb I loosened a row of bright yellow kernels from the dry red cob and let them fall down into the bottom of my pail, but the crickets just walked on them. Looking up I realized Dad was on his way again. I scooted after him and jumped onto his shadow. We walked on the gravel driveway between the red painted pole barn and the old sow barn, turning the corner towards the pasture.

“Stay here Susan,” Dad said as he climbed over the fence into the muddy barnyard, his big rubber boots clunking and squishing. Not a pig could be seen. I watched as he walked from trough to trough, shaking dry feed into each one. Back to the fence, over he climbed to stand beside me then started to call, “Suuu-ee! Suuu-ee! Suuu-ee!” His shout was the loudest I’d ever heard from him.

“Why are you calling my name Dad?” my eyes were wide, but I remembered to duck back around to stand on his shadow again.

He smiled, “No, that’s how you call the sows in from the pasture. Suuu-ee! Suuu-ee! Pig! Pig! Pig! Look!” and he pointed towards the pasture.

The sows were running! At the far end of the pasture through the long grass I could see the big powerful bodies rocking in a gallop towards us, heads and snouts up, large ears catching the wind and slapping rhythmically against the sides of their faces. I giggled at the sight of those huge, dignified sows running like piglets, legs hidden by the tall grass, looking like motor boats bouncing through green waves. I couldn’t believe how fast they were bounding towards us! They didn’t slow down until they skidded to a halt at the troughs and devoured the feed mouthful by mouthful, using their snouts to scrape it into mounds.

“Never go in the barnyard. The hog is mean. Understand Susan?”

“Yes Dad.” And I giggled again because the sows had already emptied their troughs and were nosing at us through the fence looking for corn, grunting deep and low in their throats almost like they were purring.

“OK start throwing cobs to them. Not all in the same place – make sure they are spread out so everyone gets a chance for a treat. Some of the biggest sows will try to eat it all.”

Dad, Susan and Pat feeding the sows – May 1960

My little arm couldn’t throw very far so Dad helped by tossing several ears halfway across the barnyard. The sows grunted, crunched, and squealed until all the kernels were picked clean from the cobs. Then one by one they wandered back to the grassy pasture or visited the mud hole under the big maple tree.

“All done”, Dad smiled at me as I stood in the middle of his shadow with my pail of crickets. “Thank you for helping.”

We stood a little longer watching the sows as the sun lowered in the sky, “Dad! Look at how long your shadow is now! Did I stretch it?”

He chuckled and pointed, “It’s our shadow – see your arm and hand there?”

And I watched as his shadow hand reached out and took my shadow hand, then we wandered back through the yard to tidy up for the night, closing the corncrib, putting away the shovel, basket, and pail, and releasing my captive crickets under protest.

Even now decades later when the setting sun surrounds me in a golden orange haze and my shadow stretches and tumbles halfway across the field, I cherish the quiet wisdom that he tried to teach his little shadow.