By Thomas F. Miller

In rural North Dakota lies a farm where a day-dreamy boy lives, plays, works, and learns. Meet Tom, the Farm Boy.

In Farm Boy, he tells a timeless tale of heritage, heartache, hard work, and hope—a test of the resilience of the human spirit. No matter where life leads him, the farm and land are where Tom’s roots lie and the place he calls home. The following is an excerpt from Tom’s book, which can be purchased from Lulu.com, here.

The auction was held on a cool, overcast fall day in 1967. I was a senior in high school and stayed home from school because it was Grandpa Isaak’s estate auction. The previous November, Grandpa died suddenly of a heart attack at age 64. I was the oldest grandchild and very close to him. Grandpa and Grandma’s farm was six or seven miles from our place, so we saw them regularly. They sat in the pew behind us in church; when I was little, if I was good I could sit with them. Every time I attend that little country church with Mom, tears come to my eyes because I can still hear Grandpa belt out the hymns as loud as he could. He didn’t care if he was a little off tune, so was everyone else.

The day of the auction, hundreds of friends, neighbors, relatives, the curious, and the bargain hunters arrived on the farm. Their cars and pickups filled the large yard. They were there to buy household items, tools, and the farm machinery lined up to be sold to the highest bidder. The crowd was mostly men but some of their wives came along to look over the household goods and visit with my grandma. She was moving off the farm in a few days to a new house in town. Almost all the men were dressed in their work overalls, warm jackets, caps with ear flaps, and insulated boots. The air was blue with cigarette smoke and some of the back pockets of jeans sported a worn round circle made by an ever-present snuff can.

The church ladies were busy doing a good business selling coffee, Kool-aid, fresh homemade donuts, kuchen, and sloppy joes in a corner of the round Quonset where Grandpa repaired and stored machinery. There was always a crowd around the concessions at these auctions. The men socialized by talking about the weather, farm prices, and the coming deer hunt. All the while they kept an eye on what was being sold, lest they miss some bargains.

The main auctioneer was Frank Fitzgerald, a longtime friend of Grandpa’s. Frank was a few years older and about the same height and build, six-foot and stocky. Frank wore a big white Stetson hat, a dark wool overcoat, and a pair of shiny cowboy boots. He had big, thick lips that would flap around and jowls that would jiggle when he got into his auction cadence. Frank’s deep baritone voice was well known throughout the area. He was an honest and respected auctioneer, so good that he had been inducted into the Auctioneers Hall of Fame that year. Frank also sold livestock at the Missouri Slope Livestock Auction in Bismarck. On sale day, at noon, they’d have a live report on KFYR radio from the sales barn with the current cattle market update. At our house, everyone at the dinner table had to be quiet so Dad could hear the announcer quote the prices. Then for a few minutes, you would hear Frank auctioning off a farmer’s lot of cattle. It was a big deal to have your cattle sold during this time.

The bidders were crowded around a flatbed hay wagon inside the Quonset hut where Frank was auctioning off Grandpa’s possessions. When he didn’t think the item was bringing enough money, he’d cajole the crowd to bid another buck or two. “We’re at five dollars and still have a ways to go on this nice set of wrenches. Com’on boys, who’ll give me a six-dollar bid? Yes! Now seven, yup, now eight! That’s more like it.”

The singsong of the auction went on for a couple of hours. While I was helping my dad and uncles bring items for Frank to sell, I would occasionally take a break to stand in the audience to watch the crowd watch Frank as they tried to catch a bargain or were just curious how much an item would bring. It was during one of those breaks when my uncle held up Grandpa’s old J. C. Higgins Model 20 12-gauge pump-action shotgun sold by Sears, Roebuck. Frank tried to start the bidding at $50. When there were no takers, he said, “Well, then, who’ll get the bidding started at ten dollars?” Someone quickly raised his hand. Then Frank cried, “Who’ll give me fifteen, fifteen dollars?” Without hesitation, my hand shot up into the air. I’m not sure what possessed me to raise my hand that day, I wasn’t much of hunter and had never fired a 12-gauge before. Frank stopped the bidding long enough to say, “Just to let you know, I took the fifteen-dollar bid from Fred’s oldest grandson. Now who will give me twenty, a twenty-dollar bid, we’re at fifteen now twenty, fifteen now twenty, fifteen now twenty. Going once, going twice, all in, all done, sold to Tommy Miller for fifteen dollars.” I was trembling as I walked up to take possession of the shotgun. The audience clapped their gloved hands. My face turned red in embarrassment. They were happy that I owned a memory of my beloved Grandpa. So was I.

As I walked away with the barrel of the old shotgun pointed to the ground, I sensed the strength of the wooden stock, the ribs of the pump, and the trace of a scent of Grandpa. I think of that day often as it brought me some closure for his sudden, unexpected death. What I have left are my memories of Grandpa and his shotgun.

© 2024 Thomas F. Miller

Thomas F. Miller is retired from a career in public service and small-business ownership. He was born and raised in western North Dakota. He and his wife Donna have lived in Madison, Wisconsin since 1987 and are the parents of two daughters. Tom is an avid photographer and traveler. He writes and shares stories and photographs on his blog site, travelingwithtom.com.