Dad, on the day of your celebration of life, Mom and I heard these words, “Goodbye Is Not Forever.”
My Dad Planted More Than Seeds – He Planted Purpose
He Taught Me to Be Rooted and Real
If you’ve ever wondered why I’m so drawn to the garden, why the smell of tomato vines or the sound of clucking hens feels like home to me, it’s all because of my dad. He didn’t just grow food; he grew something deeper. He nurtured a quiet kind of wisdom in the rows of beans and corn, a sense of peace that came from getting your hands dirty and doing things the honest way.
Some of my favorite childhood memories are of standing beside him in the garden, barefoot and wide-eyed, watching as he showed me how to gently tuck a seed into the earth like it was something sacred. He believed in the magic of small things—of planting a seed and believing it would become something nourishing. And more than anything, he believed in teaching me that same magic.
The Seeds His Grandpa Planted Still Grow in Me
He often spoke with a gentle smile about the lessons he learned as a boy—how he first discovered the wonders of gardening under his grandpa’s patient guidance. He would tell me about the simple, unforgettable joy of biting into warm, sun-ripened tomatoes straight from the vine, their sweetness bursting with the earth’s pure gift. Those moments, wrapped in the warmth of family and soil, stayed with him all his life, planting in him a love for the garden that he passed down to me.
Even now, when I’m doing my chores or pulling weeds, I feel his spirit beside me. The older I get, the more I realize how much of him is in the life I live today. He’s the reason I want to raise chickens, grow my own food, and seek a life that’s rooted and real. He showed me that a good life doesn’t have to be flashy—it just has to be full of purpose, love, and a little dirt under your fingernails. This is one of the reasons I created this blog.
My dad raised a lively little homestead of 30 to 50 chickens and a small flock of sheep—each one cared for with the same steady hands and gentle heart he gave everything in life. I’ve heard the stories of their bustling coop and the soft bleats in the morning light, and I carry those images with me every day. Though I haven’t yet started my own flock, I dream of one day filling my yard with that same joyful life, honoring the legacy he built with every cluck and every gentle step of the sheep.
The Sunflowers He Grew Just to Make the World More Beautiful
My dad had a practical side, sure—he grew food to feed his family, tended the land with purpose—but every summer, he made room for beauty. Tall, golden sunflowers stood proudly along the edge of the garden, towering over the rows of vegetables like cheerful sentinels. He didn’t grow them for any reason other than joy. He just loved them.
He’d stop to admire them in the evenings, hands on his hips, watching the way their heads followed the sun like they knew something the rest of us didn’t. “A garden should make you smile,” he once said, and those sunflowers did exactly that.
To this day, I can’t see a sunflower without thinking of him—his quiet appreciation for simple beauty, his belief that something lovely growing tall and strong was worth every bit of care (and my backyard is full of sunflowers). In a world that so often rushes past the little things, my dad taught me to pause, to look up, and to grow something just because it makes life brighter.
The Man Who Taught Me How to Grow—In the Garden and in Life
Some of my earliest and dearest memories are of following my dad through the rows of our garden, the sun warm on our backs and the scent of tomato leaves lingering in the air. I must have been no older than 10, barefoot and curious, trying so hard to copy the way he knelt down, scooped up a handful of soil, and rubbed it between his fingers like he could read its secrets.
He had this gentle patience when he worked in the garden. It was like time slowed down for him when he was with the plants. I remember how he showed me to water the tomatoes slowly, letting the water sink deep into the roots. “Don’t drown them,” he’d say with a wink, “just give them a good drink.” He treated those plants like old friends—ones he checked on daily, whispered to, and trusted to grow.
The Day I Dug Deeper Than Dirt
He gave me my own little square plot to care for one summer. I was to tend to it and make it thrive alongside his extremely large garden. I tended mine with his that he himself tended to all summer long. And I will never forget that first time he handed me a huge Picaxe to swing and loosen the dirt. This tool was to help me grow my very first tomatoes. I felt extremely special, even though the day was horrendously hot and humid. I will never forget that day or summer. It has been forever embedded in me to be more like him.
But it wasn’t just about vegetables. It was about values. Through the garden, he taught me how to be steady, how to be kind, and how to care for something outside of myself. I learned that you can’t rush growth. It takes showing up every day, pulling the weeds, and having faith that the effort will pay off. It always does.
The Garden Where He Grew Me Too
Looking back, it wasn’t just tomatoes or beans that we were tending. He was tending to me. He was teaching me how to live close to the land, how to be grounded in something real. Every skill I have now—raising chickens, growing food, living off-grid—it all started in that garden, with him. And somehow, even though he’s not here to walk beside me, I still feel him in every seed I plant and every harvest I gather.
Those paths weren’t just rows between plants—they were where I learned to slow down, to pay attention, to feel the rhythm of the seasons. I remember the way he’d crouch down to show me a sprouting seed or a hidden cucumber, his voice calm and steady, full of quiet pride. His presence made everything feel right in the world.
Even now, when I walk through my own garden, I sometimes close my eyes and imagine I’m that little barefoot girl again, following my dad’s steady footsteps through a life rooted in care, intention, and love. His garden was my first sanctuary—and it still is, even though in my memories.
Three Generations in the Garden
One of the greatest blessings in my life was watching my own sons follow in the same dusty footprints I once did, trailing behind my dad as he moved through his garden with quiet purpose. Just like I had, they wandered through the rows of vegetables with wide eyes and muddy toes, curious about every leaf, bug, and bloom. He welcomed them into his world with open arms and patient hands, teaching them how to pull weeds, check for ripe tomatoes, and gently water the roots, not the leaves. He always told me if I got water on the leaves, they would burn and crisp in the sun.
There was something magical about seeing him pass down his love for the land to them, not through lectures or lessons, but through example. They watched how he moved, how he spoke to the plants like old friends, and they soaked it all in.
I’d catch glimpses of them standing beside him as in the photo above, heads tilted up, mimicking his movements—just like I used to. And in those moments, it felt like time folded in on itself, like a sacred thread connecting past, present, and future through seeds, soil, and love.
Even now, they remember those walks with him. And I know, deep in their hearts, they carry the same desire to grow, to nurture, and to live close to the earth—because of the quiet, steady man who showed us all how.
The Storyteller We Couldn’t Get Enough Of
My dad had a way with words—a natural storyteller who could turn the simplest moment into something magical. He didn’t need a book or a script; just a chair, his favorite beer, and an eager audience. My sons adored him for it. They’d sit wide-eyed at his feet or beside him on the porch, asking question after question, never wanting the stories to end.
He’d grin as they fired off their curiosity—about the “olden days,” about animals, about anything and everything—and with every answer, he’d weave in a little humor, a little wisdom, and a whole lot of love. Watching them hang onto his every word was like watching my own childhood all over again. I’m so grateful they got to know him not just as Grandpa, but as the storyteller he truly was—one who passed down pieces of our family’s soul through laughter, memories, and the sound of his voice.
The Coop He Missed, and the Dream He Carried
When I was growing up, my dad did have his dream chicken coop—a lively little setup filled with hens he cared for with such pride. I remember the sounds, the smells, the way he’d walk out with scraps and come back with fresh eggs and a contented smile. It was a part of him, that coop. A part of the rhythm and purpose he built his life around.
As time passed and my parents moved closer to the city, they traded that big yard for a smaller one—still full of life, but not quite enough space for chickens. And even then, he never stopped missing them. He talked often about getting just a few hens again, maybe a small coop in the corner of the yard—something simple, something to bring that part of his life back.
But then he got sick. Cancer began to take what the years hadn’t. And while his body weakened, his dream never did. He held onto the hope of chickens again, even in his final seasons. It hurts to know he never got to see that dream return—to build that little coop he talked about with such longing.
Now, I carry that dream in my own heart. I haven’t started my flock yet, but when I do, it will be more than just chickens in a yard. It will be a piece of him brought back to life, a living tribute to the man who taught me how to care, to hope, and to always leave room for the things that bring joy.
The Dream He Never Let Go Of—And One I Still Hold Onto
One of the hardest truths I’ve had to face is knowing that my dad wasn’t ready to leave us. He was not ready to leave Mom, his lifelong companion, his loving wife. Even as cancer slowly took its toll, he clung to the dreams that gave him hope and purpose, especially the dream of having chickens again. He talked about that coop like it was a promise to himself, a future still waiting just beyond the horizon.
He longed for the sound of their soft clucks, the feel of warm eggs in his hands, and the simple joy of caring for something that grew and lived alongside him. That dream wasn’t just about chickens—it was about life, about carrying on, about holding tightly to the parts of himself that illness couldn’t steal.
I watched him fight to hold onto that hope, even when his body weakened and his days grew harder. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye—not to us, not to the life he loved, and not to the dreams he still had within him.
I haven’t started my own flock yet, but I carry that dream with me. And when the day comes that I finally welcome chickens into our yard, it will be for him and for the promise he never gave up on. Because in that dream, he is still here, leading, hoping, and loving us all the way.
What He Planted in Me Still Grows
My dad may have planted gardens, but what really grew was so much more than food. He planted values—deep, enduring ones—that have taken root in my life and shaped the woman I’ve become. He taught me the kind of work ethic that doesn’t complain, just keeps going. The kind that wakes up early, tends the chores, and finds satisfaction in a job well done, even when no one’s watching.
He showed me that you don’t need much to be rich in life. A home-cooked meal, the smell of the earth after rain, a quiet evening spent watching the sun slip behind the hills—those were his treasures. And now, they’re mine too.
I carry his love for the simple life in everything I do—from the way I preserve food with care to the joy I feel when I see something I’ve planted begin to grow. He taught me to slow down, to listen, to be present. To appreciate a life built with your own two hands. This is one of the reasons I have created this blog.
Even now, when I face hard times or moments of doubt, I hear his steady voice reminding me to keep going, to trust in the process, to keep tending what matters most. His legacy isn’t just in the garden or the chickens—it’s in every quiet, resilient part of me that believes in living close to the land and loving with your whole heart.
The Trail He Blazed for Us
My dad had a way of turning the ordinary into an adventure. He was never one to sit still for long, especially when there was a trail to hike, a mountain to explore, or a lake just begging for a boat to skim across it. He was the heart behind every family outing, the one who packed the cooler, loaded up the kids, and said, “Let’s go see what we can find.”
Some of my favorite childhood memories aren’t just of where we went, but how we got there—with him leading the way, a twinkle in his eye, and a grin that made it all feel exciting, even if we ended up lost or muddy or even when his truck breaks down after overheating from towing his boat on a scorching hot and horribly humid July afternoon. Whether it was hiking through thick pines, skipping rocks across still water, or setting up a makeshift picnic on a sun-warmed boulder, he made the wilderness feel like home.
He Taught Us to Love the Wild and Walk Through It Bravely
Dad taught us to look up at the stars and wonder, to listen to the wind in the trees, and to appreciate the kind of quiet that only comes when you’re miles away from everything. He didn’t just show us the outdoors—he gave us a deep love for it. And more than that, he gave us confidence. He taught us how to read the land, how to push through when the path got steep, and how to laugh when things didn’t go as planned.
I see so much of his spirit in the way I raise my own family now—encouraging exploring, embracing nature’s challenges, and always chasing the next adventure, no matter how small. The trail he blazed wasn’t just through the woods. It was through our hearts. And I’ll be following it for the rest of my life.
He Held My Book Like It Was Gold
When I wrote my first book, I was filled with equal parts excitement and nervousness. I wasn’t sure how people would react—if anyone would even read it. But one thing I knew for certain was that my parents would be proud. And they were.
I still remember the day he got his copy. He held it up like it was something sacred, something priceless—like I had written the Great American Novel itself. The way his eyes lit up, the way he turned the pages slowly, as if savoring every word… that moment is etched into my heart forever.
He kept that book around like a badge of honor, keeping it by his chair. He made me feel like I’d climbed a mountain, even if all I’d done was pour my heart into pages. But to him, that was everything. Now, mom has it safely tucked away in her home. My parents are the best any kid or grandkid could ever ask for!
That moment reminded me that success isn’t about fame or fortune—it’s about making the people who matter most proud. And I did that for my parents. Knowing they saw me, believed in me, and celebrated me… that was one of the greatest gifts they ever gave me.
My Song for Him: “Daddy’s Hands”
There’s a lump in my throat every time I hear “Daddy’s Hands.” That song says everything my heart struggles to put into words. I remember his hands—strong and calloused, yet always gentle when it came to us. They planted gardens, fixed what was broken, carried the weight of our world without complaint… and they held mine when I needed steadying.
The words of that song are like a time capsule—each verse wrapping around memories of him kneeling in the soil, lifting me into his arms, patting my back with quiet comfort. I chose that song as my way of saying thank you. For the love, the strength, the protection, and the tenderness that lived in his hands. Those were Daddy’s hands, and I will always carry their touch in my heart.
His Song for Me & My Sisters: “Daddy’s Girl”
Growing up, I remember hearing “Daddy’s Girl” by Red Sovine play through the stereo, and I always knew it was his way of speaking straight to our hearts. He never had to say much—he just played that song. And in those few tender minutes, I could feel all the love he carried for me, wrapped in every lyric. It became our quiet tradition, his special way of saying, “You’ll always be my little girl.”
In recent years, as time and distance shifted our lives, he’d send the song to me through Messenger. No long message, just the song—just enough to bring tears to my eyes every time. And even now, those messages mean the world. They remind me that no matter how many years pass, or how far apart we may feel, I was and will always be Daddy’s Girl.
Dear Dad…
Every time I kneel in the soil or do my chores, I feel you with me. Not just in memory, but in spirit—in the warmth of the sun on my back, the scent of tomatoes on my hands, the contented sounds of my sons settling in for the night. You’re there, woven into the quiet rhythm of this life I’ve built… the one you planted in my heart so many years ago.
I never got the chance to say all the things I wish I could’ve, so I’ll say them here.
Thank You, Dad…
Thank you for teaching me that hard work is a kind of love. That growing your own food isn’t just practical—it’s sacred. That joy can be found in a freshly pulled carrot, a basket of eggs, or the way the soil crumbles just right between your fingers.
Thank you for showing me how to live slow, steady, and true. You never needed a big stage or loud applause. You just needed your garden, your dreams, and the people you loved. And you gave all of it to us without asking for anything in return.
I carry your lessons with me every single day and share them on this blog, sprinkled within a ton of different posts. And I see you in the way I care for my animals, in the quiet pride I feel when a seed sprouts, in the peace that settles over me when the chores are done and the world feels just a little more in balance.
I hope you know I’m still growing what you started. I’m still living the life you dreamed of—barefoot in the garden, hands in the dirt, heart full.
I miss you. I love you. And I’ll never stop thanking you.
Love always,
Mini Pearl – Mindy (The Off Grid Barefoot Girl)
Who Planted the First Seed in You?
As I reflect on the roots of my own journey—the hands that guided me, the love that grew me—I can’t help but wonder about yours. Who was the one who first showed you the joy of digging in the dirt, the magic of a garden sprouting to life, or the peace of a quiet morning with animals at your side?
Maybe it was a parent or grandparent, a neighbor, or someone you watched from afar. Maybe you’re the first in your family to walk this path. No matter where your story begins, I’d love to hear it.
This page is a tribute to my dad, but it’s also an invitation for you to remember, to reflect, and to share. Who inspired your love for the land? I hope you’ll leave a comment or send me a message. I’d be honored to read your story and celebrate the ones who planted the first seed in you, just like my dad did for me!
Blessings,
Mindy
The Off Grid Barefoot Girl
