My Roots: Faith, Farms, and a Boyhood of Holy Mischief

CHAPTER ONE

My Roots: Faith, Farms, and a Boyhood of Holy Mischief

I was born in 1954 in the farm country south of Nappanee, Indiana—back when neighbors still waved from tractors, the county roads were shared with just and many Amish buggies as tractors, and a man’s word and handshake were stronger than any contract. Ours was a simple home, but it was built on the richest foundation a child could ask for: faith, family, and the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt.

My First Birthday

Mom and Dad—Pat and George—were the heart of it all. Dad was affection and enthusiasm wrapped in one big, unstoppable force of nature. Mom was steady, prayerful, creative, and filled with a quiet strength that could carry a family through anything. Between the two of them, they shaped three wild, adventure-prone boys—Todd, Trent, and me (with my older sister Tammy attempting to keep us alive)—into men.

Farm Life & the School of Hard Knocks

Growing up on the farm meant that every day felt like an adventure waiting to happen—or a disaster waiting to be cleaned up. In our case, it was usually both.

Tammy deserves a medal—or at least a plaque—because she served as the governor on our runaway engines. She wasn’t just the older sister; she was the steadying presence that kept us from burning down barns, breaking bones, or accidentally launching one another into low orbit. She had a nurturing spirit long before the rest of us had sense enough to appreciate it.

And then there were the boys.

Todd, being coordinated from birth, started swinging a baseball bat before he could properly form a sentence. Unfortunately, he did not always use it on baseballs. One of his earliest “home runs” involved knocking both headlights out of Dad’s shiny new ’60 Buick.

Then there was the unforgettable chicken incident. Todd, curious what a chicken would look like “walking around on its knees,” decided to take matters into his own… bat. Let’s just say Mom handled many things with grace, but that day required extra help from above.

The Blue Pickup, the Silo, and the Corn Planter

One of my earliest memories involves Dad’s old early-1950s blue pickup truck. I must’ve been five or six. He turned into the drive, the passenger door swung open, and out I went — headfirst into the gravel. Miraculously, I stood up without a scratch. It was my first hint that maybe angels keep busy on farms.

Then there was the day I climbed the 30-foot silo.

I was maybe four or five — still small enough to have no sense of mortality but big enough to move fast. During silage harvest, the men were inside the house eating lunch. I saw the ladder leaning against the silo and thought, Well, that looks like an adventure.

Up I went.

Halfway up, I felt as tall as Superman. At the top, I felt like I could see the whole world — fields stretching into the distance, the farmhouse glowing below me, the crisp blue sky above. When the men finally realized I was missing, they found me perched at the top, perfectly content. Dad climbed up calmly — his own heart surely pounding — and coaxed me back down with soft words and steady hands.

Not every moment ended that peacefully. A few years later, Dad unknowingly began moving the 4-row corn planter while I was crawling on it, curious about how everything worked. I slipped through the frame, gashed my head, and Dad rushed me to Grandma Sheets’ house where I bled all over her kitchen. Stitches, tears, and a big lesson followed.

Farm life was full of these “close calls” — the kind that shaped you long before you understood how.

Pokey the Beagle and the Cats with Parachutes

Our first family dog was Pokey the beagle, a loyal little hound who wandered off one week and returned days later with one back leg freshly amputated. Dad believed he’d gotten caught in a trap and chewed himself free. Pokey walked a bit lopsided, but he was still our dog — tougher than nails and twice as stubborn.

Then there were the cats.

Fascinated by aviation, I decided to tie handkerchief parachutes to them and toss them gently off the barn roof. In my mind, the cats would float like astronauts returning to Earth. In reality, they dropped like bowling balls — confused, indignant, and unamused. No permanent harm done… unless you count that they avoided me for weeks.

But the crowning event—the one that still gets told at family gatherings with a mix of horror and laughter—was The Snickers & Snake Incident, a masterclass in bad judgment.

The Snickers & Snake Incident (Expanded)

On a blistering summer afternoon, Todd and I biked to the country store for candy bars and frosty Coke bottles—life’s simple joys. Mom asked us to bring her a Snickers, which was her favorite. We tucked it into a brown paper bag and headed home.

Then we saw it. A freshly run-over corn snake sprawled across the pavement like a warning from heaven.

Somewhere between the heat, the sugar, and our utter lack of common sense, a terrible idea was born.

“What if we put the snake in the bag… on top of the Snickers?”

We imagined Mom reaching in and jumping a bit. Maybe a small scream. Maybe even a tiny laugh afterward. Harmless, right?

Well.

We handed her the bag with absolute innocence painted across our faces.

The second she reached in, the shriek that escaped that woman could have registered on the Richter scale. Chickens fled the yard. Cats vapor-trailed into the distance. I think the cornfields bowed in reverent terror.

When the dust settled—and our rear ends were tanned to a standard medium-well—we realized two things:

1. Mom’s phobia of snakes was no joke.

2. We were profoundly, cosmically foolish.

Looking back, it’s amazing she didn’t send us off to military school.

Cultivating Through History

When I was 14, Dad put me on the tractor with the 4-row cultivator — hours of slow, careful driving between rows of young corn. To pass the time, I listened to WLS out of Chicago or Cubs games on WGN.

I remember exactly where I was cultivating when the news broke that Robert Kennedy had been shot. I sat alone in the fields, listening, processing, trying to make sense of a world that suddenly felt heavy. Even then, the farm taught me: life can be hard, but you don’t stop moving forward.

The Rocket Boy Years

From ages 13–18, I was obsessed with model rockets, inspired by the space race. My proudest creation was the Estes Saturn V — nearly 40 hours of intricate work. I never launched it. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing months of effort explode or drift away into a cornfield.

Those rockets became symbols of dreams — some you launch boldly, and some you simply admire, knowing the beauty lies in the building.

Mom: The Quiet Strength

Despite raising boys who were scientifically categorized as “feral,” Mom carried herself with grace. Each morning, before the sun rose high enough to warm the kitchen, she sat at the table with her Bible open. The soft dawn light framed her bowed head, and I remember thinking—even as a child—That is what peace looks like.

She didn’t parent out of her own strength; she drew daily from the well of God’s wisdom. It showed in everything she did—her patience, her gentleness, her creativity, even her corrections (which, yes, were sometimes necessary).

Dad: The Encourager

Even though Todd drew most of the athletic spotlight, I never felt overshadowed. Dad had this extraordinary gift—he made every kid feel like the favorite. He told me often how proud he was of me, even when I wasn’t sure I’d done anything worth praising.

“I love you, and I’m proud of you,” he would say.

That blessing sank into my bones. And even to this day I feel the warmth and love in that simple phrase.

He believed in people—often more than they believed in themselves. To this day, I pray I inherited at least a fraction of that gift.

Faith as the Foundation

We grew up knowing that faith wasn’t just something you talked about on Sundays. It was the air you breathed. Mom and Dad lived it out in real time—in barnyards, kitchens, hospital rooms, and everyday chores. Their marriage, their joy, even their struggles—they wrapped everything in prayer.

Those early years planted the seeds of who I would become as a husband, father, grandfather, and farmer. Everything good I’ve built in my life traces back to those roots in Nappanee.

Sheets Kids 1972