The isolation often meant that a week spent looking forward to a visit to a county-seat town for a matinee showing a Hopalong Cassidy flick with a side of Bugs Bunny cartoons while my parents did their trading could be ruined by a Friday night rain. The 4-mile dirt road connecting us with the nearest blacktop would turn to mud, a challenge too great for our old Chevy.

Looking back, growing up on an isolated farm had its advantages. From an early age, my folks allowed me to explore the farm on my own. I remember my six-year-old self playing in a shallow creek while my dad plowed bottomland. I’d build small dams that would quickly wash away, and pursue crawdads and frogs that usually avoided by reach. It was a far cry from the helicopter parenting that isolates and protects today’s youngsters from the realities of life, but I survived.

The photo shows Ken as a toddler at the back of their farmhouse, which featured a pump for drawing water. His dad (and occasional harvest hands) would use the pump to wash up before entering the house for dinner.