Written for Dad on his 79^th birthday.

By Debra (Hahn) Gorman

(November 3, 2008)

1929 was a year of great significance for America. Babe Ruth became the first baseball player to hit 500 homeruns in his career; the soft drink 7-Up was invented; Popeye made his first appearance in the comics; the first car radio was made by Motorola and penicillin was discovered. Oh yes, there was that little incident called “Black Thursday” which marked the beginning of a drastic decline in the world economy resulting in mass unemployment and poverty. That historical event lasted for ten years and is remembered as the Great Depression.

Earl Christian Hahn also made history in 1929. His birth on November 3 helped bring the total US population to 120 million. He’s not just one in a million; he’s one in 120 million. But those who know Earl have believed that all along.

The Hahn surname, which means “Rooster”, emerged from the lands that formed the powerful German state of Prussia. The state was at one time an immense German territory before being conquered and divided. The Hahns are thought to be from, what is known now, as Bavaria, located at the south-east corner of Germany. It’s said that the men from this region tended to be broader in build and more compact in stature. They were known for their fighting capabilities. Hahn became a common a nickname for a proud, cocky individual.

Immigration records show that the first Hahn to arrive in North America was Marie Elizabeth Hahn in 1738. By the year 1920, more than 5000 Hahns lived in the US, with only 3% (166 Hahns) living in Michigan. 

Legend has it that three Hahn brothers arrived at Ellis Island, New York Harbor in 1845. One of the brothers, Jacob, brought his wife, Katherine, and four children. One of those children was five-year old Christian who would become Earl’s great, great, grandfather.

The Hahn family moved to Ohio where Christian grew up and married Sarah Christman in 1862.The newlyweds moved to Huntington County Indiana and became farmers.  

Christian helped establish a Lutheran church which exists today, although the original structure was destroyed by fire. Every important record and fixture was lost in that fire, except for one thing; the lectern, which was spared, perhaps miraculously. Christian Hahn had built that lectern with his own hands, complete with intricate carving and beautiful polish. On any given Sunday morning, you can still find a minister preaching behind that old fixture in a little Lutheran Church in Andrews, Indiana. It is said that one is never dead as long as he is remembered. That precious lectern remains as a witness to man who loved God and used his hands as a form of worship. 

Christian’s son, Keefus, was born on September 1, 1863. He was raised on the Indiana farm and eventually married Mary Barbara Krieg. Mary died on November 12, 1888 while giving birth to their second child. The daughter survived and Keefus went on to marry Mary number two: Mary Sophia Miller. 

While living in Andrews, Indiana, Keefus owned and operated a brick and tile manufacturing company. It’s said that he once fell and was buried beneath a pile of gravel and was struck in the face by the shovel of one of his rescuers.  After that incident, he always wore a beard to hide the scars that remained. 

In 1913, Keefus and Mary Sophia bought a 200 acre farm in Sturgis, Michigan, located southwest of the town and very near the Indiana border. It was there that Earl’s father, Clarence Hahn was born, one of six siblings. 

Clarence grew up and married Mazie Dunker in 1923.  Mazie had one sibling, a brother Amos, but had little contact with her family after her parent’s divorce when she was fourteen. Mazie was sent to live with her Uncle George and Aunt Nettie Dunker.  Not much is known about Mazie’s parents, but it is said that after the divorce, her mother supported herself raising canaries and running a boarding house.  

The Hahn newlyweds joined Keefus and Mary on the farm, living in the original homestead on Balk Rd. Keefus and Mary had moved to a farmhouse on West Fawn River road, which exists today and is the home of Earl’s daughter Laura and her husband, Marty Barnard.

Of the six siblings, Clarence was the one to stay and help with the farm. When Earl was about eight years old, his family moved up to the Fawn river Rd house to live with his grandparents. The Balk Road farmhouse was moved next door to the elder Hahn but was never lived in. Instead it was used to store grain. Over the years, Mazie gave birth to seven children: Edward, Estella, Earl, Ernest, Cora and eight years later, twin boys, Ray and Roy. Sadly, Roy did not survive. 

As an eight-year old, Cora was aware that her mother was ill much of the time and had taken to her bed. One day, the family Doctor paid a house call. After assessing Mazie’s condition and seeing her unhappy state, he pulled two tiny babies out of his black bag and offered them to her mother in an effort to cheer her. At least that’s what little Corie imagined took place.

Indeed, the entire household was cheered, but only briefly.  Poor Roy cried day and night and was inconsolable.  He was gone in seven weeks, the cause of death unknown. 

When asked how they would characterize their childhood, each living member of this family, without consulting each other, said the same thing, “Work”. They don’t remember having time for games or playing. There was just too much work to do.  It took every one of them to succeed as farmers. 

The Hahn farm was one of the first in the in the area to acquire a tractor and other progressive farm implements. Because of their modern machinery, the family did custom work for neighboring farms, often baling hay from spring until fall, a process which took five people, according to Ray and Ernie.

After the hay had been cut, raked into rows and dried in the sun, it was time to bale. One boy drove the tractor which pulled the baling machine. Ed would rake the hay into the baler which was then compressed into bales that weighed more than 100 pounds, much more than a bale of hay weighs today. Riding the baler, on either side was Corie and Stella. One of the girls would feed the wire into the machine and the other would tie it, thus binding the bale. When it was determined that enough hay had been fed into the machine to make a bale, a wedge of wood was placed over the plunger to separate the bales. One of the boys would stand on the wagon which was pulled behind the baler and grab each completed block of hay to stack it on the wagon. When a wagon was full, it would be unloaded and stacked like bricks in a sweltering haymow where the dust was thick enough to chew. 

The family worked hard, but ate well from all that the farm produced. They certainly faired better than many families affected by the Depression. They butchered their own hogs, beef, chickens, ducks, turkey and guinea, and hunted small game and deer in season. 

Mazie tended the garden, harvesting and canning vegetables as well as apples, pears and berries. Every other day she baked six loaves of bread and a pan of 24 biscuits. She accomplished all this around the task of preparing three large meals each day. Breakfast was usually pancakes, eggs and bacon or sausage. Lunch always contained meat, potatoes, vegetables and fruit. Supper was a variation of the lunch menu and just as large. 

There aren’t many tales of fighting or arguing among the Hahn children; perhaps they were too busy for such petty nonsense. Ernie has one recollection, however, involving Earl in a fit of temper. Ernie states that when Earl was about seven years old, he grabbed Ernie and his older sister Stella by the hair and pulled them, head first, down a hill near the house.  Ernie doesn’t remember what provoked the outburst, and Stella doesn’t recall the event at all. She remembers her brother Earl as being “quite agreeable”– most of the time. 

Clarence bought the farm from his father and later purchased another 40 acres. Keefus lived with his son until his death, but Mary had taken to staying with one family member after another. Perhaps she found it difficult to share a house with another woman. She ultimately settled in with her sister-in-law Dora, where she was until her death in 1948.

Grandpa Keefus helped run the farm until old age slowed him, forcing him to spend more time in the house. Stella remembers that as children, they were constantly being told to “Shush” or “Be Quiet”, “Grandpa’s listening to the radio”, or “Grandpa’s resting.” 

A family outing was so rare that it was not easily forgotten. On Memorial Day, the family would traditionally drive to Elkhart, Indiana to visit the cemeteries where their deceased relatives were buried. After paying homage, they would all eat together at some roadside picnic area.  

September brought the end of haying season and the annual St Joseph County Fair. This was the only outing besides the Memorial Day picnic that Clarence shared with his children. It was truly a special occasion and Mazie would fry up lots of delicious chicken for a picnic on the fairgrounds.

Stella and Earl once shared a 1925 Dodge with wooden spoke wheels. When a couple of the axles broke, they were replaced with ones found in a junkyard. The nicest memory regarding that car was a mysterious, but pleasant aroma that would waft from the heater whenever it was turned on.  The good smell was probably helpful when Ray gave his pet Billy goat a ride on the running boards of that old car. Ray was convinced that the goat enjoyed it. The goat had no comment.

Other animals went for car rides too. On one particular day, Earl and Ray were driving down one of the farm lanes with a new hood ornament–a barn cat. The cat splayed his toes, desperately trying to embed his nails in the car’s metal hood to keep from bouncing off.  He managed to hold on despite the bumps and jerks from the ruts of the dirt lane. Ray was worried, however, and kept repeating to Earl, “He’s gonna jump off and you’re gonna run over him! 

Earl’s reply was always they same, “If he jumps off, he’ll jump to the side and won’t get hurt.”  

This dialogue continued until the cat jumped off. Ray was right. 

Clarence later bought a new 1950 Chevy for Earl and Ernie to share. Ernie was out of luck when Earl took the car with him when he joined the army. It was just as well, the back wheel kept falling off and eventually Clarence bought a newer car. 

Earl was in his early twenties when his uncle, Ernest Henschel passed away.  Earl and his cousin Clarence traveled to Northern Michigan to tend to the Henschel farm chores for awhile. As they were mending a fence out near the road one day, two young girls walked by. Sharon Birgy and her cousin Joyce shyly noticed the boys, but didn’t stop to chat. A short while later, those same boys, Earl and Clarence, pulled up beside them in a car and offered a ride. The girls told them they were walking to Kalkaska. It was at least a ten mile trek, but it wasn’t unusual for the girls to walk the entire way.

Seeing an opportunity, the cunning boys said, “Uh…yeah, so are we!” 

Here is Sharon’s story, taken from her memoir:

“They took us to Kalkaska and the restaurant where my mom worked. We were actually going to Alden, Michigan to the dance; I don’t know how they found that out; we must have told them on the ride. Anyway, they left and we started walking again. One of our girlfriends from school was going to the dance too, but her parents were driving her. They stopped and we got a ride the rest of the way. During the dance, we walked outside to get some air and this car kept going by, yelling at Joyce and me. We didn’t know who they were so we ignored them. Later, we found out it was Clarence and Earl. They had returned to their Aunt and Uncles’, cleaned up and come looking for us. We didn’t recognize them because they were in a different car, and it was just dark enough you couldn’t see inside the car very well.

Later that week, before the nephews drove back home to a place Sharon had never heard of, “Sturgis, Michigan”, they invited the girls to dinner and a movie. When they arrived to pick them up, the girls were unsure who was to be the date of whom. Clarence was driving and Earl was in the backseat. Sharon and Joyce briefly made eye contact before Joyce jumped in the front seat with Clarence, leaving Sharon to sit with Earl. The rest, as they say, is history. 

Sharon and Earl married on December 15, 1952 in front of Judge Polleys in Centreville, Michigan. Sharon thought she was in heaven; she had always wanted to marry a farmer. She felt rich with her new furniture, an inside toilet and even a shower. These luxuries were a wedding gift to the couple from Earl’s father. Earl earned only $500.00 a year working for his father at that time.

Mazie, who had been ill for years, died on Christmas day, 1960 due to complications from diabetes and heart disease. The anniversary clock that Earl had sent to his parents while an army soldier stationed in Germany stopped ticking at the very moment her heart stopped beating. The clock never kept time again, but kept its place on the wall shelf in the parlor for many years, a silent reminder of her loss. The gifts piled under the decorated tree that year would not be opened until the following August. 

 For several years Clarence operated the farm with sons, Earl, Ernie and Ray. Ernie tried his hand at his own farm for a while, but eventually he and Ray took jobs at Grumman Olson, a facility that opened its doors in 1963 to make commercial truck bodies. By then all the children were married with young children. 

Earl worked the farm with his father until Clarence died in 1969.  Earl spent the next several years buying out his sibling’s interest in the farm to own it himself, free and clear. By this time, three generations had been born, lived on and worked the land that had grown to 240 acres. It was Earl’s dream that the farm would stay in the Hahn family forever. 

Within seven years, Earl and Sharon had five children:  Debra, Laura, Susan, Kathy and Kevin.  Susan was the only child that Earl named himself. 

When he knew Sharon was pregnant again, he said, 

“I think we need a Suzie… if it’s a girl”. 

Lo and behold—we have a “Suzie”. 

Earl had stated, somewhat seriously, that they would keep trying until they had a son. Luckily, child number five was Kevin, to the joy—and relief of his parents. Dr Pennington had said that it would be dangerous for Sharon to bear more children and convinced Earl that Sharon should have a tubal ligation to prevent further pregnancies.   Earl agreed, without knowing that a son was about to arrive. 

Earl continued the Hahn work ethic throughout his farming years. If his children wanted to spend time with their father, they joined him in his work around the farm. Debbie remembers that early on, all the children who could walk or toddle occasionally joined Earl on his walk to the barn after breakfast or lunch. There might be two children on his left and three on his right, each child claiming a finger to tightly hold on to. After reaching the barn—which seemed like such a long hike—the “big kids” would hold the hands of the “little kids” and return to the house. 

When the kids were slightly older, they enjoyed “helping” their dad in the barn. Earl would lift the smaller ones into the barn’s tall-sided feed wagon while the older ones would climb, first onto the wheel, then pulling themselves up and over the wagon’s side, they would topple onto the soft grain. It would have been faster if Earl had done the job himself, but he allowed the children to take turns with the shovel, filling buckets with mashed grain, while he fed a portion to each cow waiting to be milked in her stanchion. It’s hard to forget the rich aroma of that grain tinged with the sweet smell of molasses. 

It seems there was almost always a huge mud puddle just outside the barn. The kids loved sailing boats they made by nailing a couple boards together. That was just fine until Earl needed his hammer and nails. He wouldn’t have minded the building business if the kids had ever thought to return the tools. In the winter, that same puddle became a skating rink, although the skating consisted of an attempt to slip and slide gracefully while wearing rubber boots. 

The family always had a herding dog and Rex was the first dog the children knew. Rex was an exceptionally intelligent and valuable herding dog. He was even more special because he performed so well on only three legs. Rex had one bad habit, however, that no amount of scolding could cure. He liked to follow his master wherever he went, even trailing the tractor on the road—which accounts for the missing hind leg.   One night, the family learned that Rex had been hit and killed by a car on the corner of West Fawn River and Balk Rd.  There was much crying and wailing as the children had their first bitter encounter with death.

Later came Jeff, a Border collie, so named because he was born on President Jefferson’s Birthday. Jeff lived a long life and had his own bad habit. While herding cows, he would bite off half their tails. He was a good herding dog, but many a sad cow lacked a switch to brush the flies off her back. 

Earl had little time for recreation with his family, but the children remember well the times their father took them on an outing. A memory all the children enjoy is fishing at the channel in Colon, Michigan.  Earl would fish with one cane pole while the children shared another one. Standing, in turn, next to their dad on the bank, they received instruction on how to fish. Each child had mishaps as they learned to manage a line with a hook on the end and no one even remembers how much fish was caught. It was enough to be with Dad. 

Kathy recalls being with her dad “in the back 40”, which is what they called the 40 acres added to the original farm, reachable at the end of a long lane on Balk Rd. The acreage was wooded and a good place to look for edible mushrooms, or mush-a-roons as the children called them. On more than one occasion in the spring of the year, Earl would roll over a log so Kathy could find a salamander for a pet. She would take the little amphibian home to an outdoor tub for the summer. In the fall, father and daughter would return the salamander to his home under the same log so that it might hibernate for the winter. 

A regular event on the farm was putting rings in pig’s snouts to prevent them from digging under fences and finding freedom.  They could be heard squealing from a long way off. When Sue was about ten she became inspired by the commotion. She carried her plastic piggy bank to where her father was working and asked if her little piggy could have a ring in its nose too. Without complaining that he was too busy, Earl stopped what he was doing, walked with Susie to the shed and placed a ring in her pig’s snout just like the real pigs wore. She was very proud of that pig and had it for many years. 

In grade school, Debbie was a hit with her classmates when she brought to science class a trachea and set of lungs taken from a domestic rabbit that had been raised for food. Each student took a turn blowing into the “windpipe”, inflating the lungs.  She knew that her father had gone to extra trouble making the rabbit’s anatomy presentable to the class, and she was grateful and proud. 

Earl had a habit of smoking when the children were small. Each day after breakfast he would roll his self-imposed allotment of ten cigarettes on a hand-operated cigarette rolling machine. He kept the cigarettes in the pocket of his t-shirt. He didn’t ask for much in the way of clothes, but he insisted that all his shirts had a pocket.

On Sunday mornings, when the kids were young, Ernie and Sarah would drive Earl’s kids to Sunday school. Somehow two adults and nine children packed into Ernie’s station wagon week after week. This was before seatbelts were a feature in cars and the kids never noticed if they were crowded. It wasn’t the most convenient church to attend as it was 15 miles away in Colon, but Sarah’s father, Clyde Hildebrand, was the minister. St Paul’s Lutheran Church is still the home church for several Hahn families. 

Sharon usually drove to Colon to pick the kids up after Sunday school, unless she stayed for the church service held afterward. Occasionally, Earl would go with Sharon to relax and enjoy a Sunday drive. He loved meandering over back country roads, which meant getting home took forever, in the minds of impatient kids.   Earl would often light one of his King Edward’s cigars. The children would spoil his moment by complaining loudly and feigning choking in the backseat until he either opened a window or snuffed out the cigar. 

When a runt baby pig was unable to fight for his mother’s teat, or a baby duck was injured, it often found a temporary home in a box next to the coal (and later gas) stove in the house. The kids were overjoyed to have the animals indoors and took turns feeding them. One particular duck, given the name Clarence, was convinced he was human. Ducks and other foul are subject to imprinting, forming close social attachments to whoever cares for them when young. Clarence would waddle close behind whoever let him out of his box. He must have been confused when he recovered well enough to be sent outside to live with his mother.

All the Hahn children, including nieces and nephews, have fond memories of the fun and freedom of life on the farm. The haymow was an endless source of adventure. Niece, Liz, recalls swinging from ropes, building forts, tunnels and traps—that Earl fell into on occasion. There were mud pies, made better by adding eggs that were gathered on the farm. Because chickens sometimes had their nests in unusual places, the eggs might not be discovered until they were obviously rotten. While city kids played dodge ball, the Hahn kids played dodge the rotten egg as they threw them at each other. It was an unfortunate child who was too slow to miss being hit with the stinky bomb.

There were also “cow pies” that most of the children freely walked through with bare feet. If the air had a chill to it, and the cow pies were fresh, there was pleasant warmth as the stuff oozed through bare toes. 

Life wasn’t all cow-patty heaven, however. Throughout the summer hay and straw were harvested.  Earl’s brothers would leave their factory jobs in the afternoon and work in the hayfields until dark. Their wives and all able-bodied children would unload the hay wagons, piled high and wobbly as they were driven in from the fields. With two people unloading, each bale was grabbed with hooks or by the twine that held it together and carried to the end of the wagon. It was dropped onto a conveyor belt for a ride up to the hay mow. The heat in the mow would be suffocating and the air thick with dust for the men who retrieved each bale from the conveyor, stacking hay like bricks. 

Help in the field was scarce during the day with most of the adult males working other jobs. When Debbie was twelve, she was promoted to the job of driving the tractor that pulled the hay baler, which pulled the wagon on which stood Earl who caught each bale as it was spit out of the baler. Debbie lasted one season on that job and both she and Earl were grateful when Laura took over the following year with better success. 

Debbie’s best memory during that tractor-driving summer had to do with bologna sandwiches. Because the adage, “make hay while the sun shines” is true for farmers, there was no going home for lunch or supper. On dry days, hay baling lasted from morning to dark. It was Sharon’s responsibility to feed the crew of workers and the menu never varied. Taking two slices of white bread, she slathered one side with butter and the other with ketchup and mustard.  A thick slice of bologna would be placed in the middle. Sandwich after sandwich was made in this fashion and stuffed into the emptied bread sacks.  She would drive to the hay field and wait until the machinery made another pass.  The operation would halt while Sharon passed out the sandwiches and a bottle of coke so cold that ice crystals interfered with the flow of the delicious thirst-quenching liquid.   Debbie is sure that no delicacy could ever compare to an ice-cold coke and a bologna sandwich eaten with dirty hands on a hot June day in a Sturgis, Michigan hayfield.  

Laurie thought it made sense that she should be able to work on her tan while she drove the tractor and Earl gave permission. One hot day they were working a field that bordered state highway US-12. Laurie began to hear cars honking over the din of the tractor’s motor. She smiled to think she was causing such a stir. Then she turned around to find Earl, not to be outdone by his daughter, had rolled his t-shirt  up under his chest, exposing an ample belly.  Laurie had to wonder then, who was all the honking really for?

It was common after a long day in the fields, for the adult workers to gather in the cool of the evening to unwind. Earl would pass around Stroh’s beer and cigars as a way to thank his family for giving so freely of their time. Sometimes the talking and laughter would run late while children ran around the yard catching fireflies. 

Farmers had a special kind of insurance in those days; it was called “Neighbor”.  If a farmer in the area was sick or injured, he could count on his neighbors to bring in the crops. Debbie remembers her awe when a caravan of combines, tractors or other machinery would parade one direction or another on West Fawn River Rd, on the way to help a neighbor. She felt such pride in her father at such times. 

Debbie had always thought her dad must be one of the smartest people in the world. He was in essence a meteorologist, accountant, veterinarian, mechanic, welder, inventor, engineer, carpenter, and the list goes on. Earl didn’t teach his children by lecture or lessons. He taught by example. He exemplified a strong work ethic, doing without extras, saving and paying cash for things that mattered and helping his fellow man however he could. 

Earl was known to answer the door in the middle of the night to find some nervous stranger needing help. Perhaps he had run into a ditch, gotten stuck in the snow, or worse.  Earl would throw on some clothes, fire up the tractor and pull his car to safety, refusing any money offered as payment. In Earl’s mind, that’s what people do, they help one another.  

Sue remembers having boy troubles as a teenager and her dad making light of her distress. She ran crying up the stairs to her bedroom. Earl followed and apologized for hurting her feelings. Then to lighten the mood he said, “Do you want me to take care of him?”  They both laughed, and Sue will all always treasure the memory of how her dad cared for her feelings. 

Nephew Jim once drove the mini bike into the back of a wagon. He thought for sure he was going to “get it” from both his dad and Uncle Earl, the owner of the bike. He needn’t have worried, their concern was for Jim, not the mini bike.   

Kevin was very special to his family. He was the long-awaited son to his parents and the adored baby brother to his doting sisters. The girls would coddle him and kiss him until he screamed for mercy.  In spite of that, he grew up with fond memories of childhood. He remembers that there was always a mini bike on the farm. One day Earl bought a new bike and decided to try it out before the kids got home from school. He crashed on the test drive, impressively skinning himself. 

Kevin isn’t sure if it was due to being the youngest, or because he was the only son, but he admits his dad was pretty lenient with him. There was the time Kevin was carted off to St. Joseph County jail for shooting woodpeckers. Earl must have thought that frightening experience was lesson enough. 

Then at Laura’s wedding, he allowed Kevin and nephew Jim to drink as much alcohol as they wanted. The boys must have been about twelve at the time and thought they were having a grand time–until they ended up puking all over each other’s shoes. Kevin credits that incident to his moderate drinking behavior today.

One day Earl and Kevin were driving home from Indiana enjoying some back road scenery, when they spied a very large snapping turtle trying to cross in front of them. Earl jumped out of the pickup, grabbed the turtle up by the tail, and threw it into the back of the truck. Kevin remembers that turtle as the best meal he ever had. The fact that Sue, a turtle lover, was nearly crying with disgust over the whole thing didn’t diminish his appetite one bit. 

Earl took his son hunting and taught him to be safe with firearms. 

“Dad was always unselfish with me, giving me the best spot to see and shoot deer”, said Kevin. “One time—it was either 1999 or 2000, we both shot bucks the same morning. I was proud of both of us that day!”

Another trip with his dad that Kevin holds dear was the trip to Jones Lake State Forest Campground in northern Michigan. It was late September and the Elk were in rut. They spent the day driving the countryside, watching Elk. 

Kevin believes that his Dad’s most effective teaching method was his example.  

“I learned from Dad to work hard, be frugal, be respectful and always keep your friends and family close to you”. 

When Debbie was sixteen and had earned her driver’s license, Earl paid $50.00 for a 1955 Pontiac from the estate of neighbor, Elmer Spaid. The car was 16 years old then, but had only 50,000 miles on the odometer, having spent most of its life in a garage.

Driving the car to work one night, Debbie rear-ended a car that had stopped for a traffic light on Chicago road. The old Pontiac was built like a tank and received only minor damage. The other car was totaled. 

Three years later, Earl sold the car to Debbie’s friend, Tom Boddett.  Tom paid Earl $50.00 for the car and later wrote about the Pontiac in one of his books while living in Alaska. Tom, a local boy, first achieved fame when he coined the phrase, “We’ll leave the light on for ya” for Motel 6 and has since written numerous books and starred in television and radio shows.

Earl has experienced his share of challenge, pain, and adversity in life, but to his way of thinking, his glass has always been “half full”.  One would be hard-pressed to find another human being with a more positive attitude. He suffered greatly when his marriage to Sharon dissolved after twenty-five years, but in true Earl fashion, he chose not to be bitter. In due time, he got up, brushed himself off and decided that life would go on.

Willa Dean Conley, formerly of Flemingsburg, Kentucky, was a waitress at the Eagles Lodge in Sturgis where Earl was a regular. The two became friendly and one night and Earl invited Willa to breakfast after closing. She thought he was a “pretty nice guy” and agreed to go. They went to the Big Boy restaurant in Sturgis where they enjoyed a good breakfast and pleasant conversation. They were about to leave the restaurant when both decided to use the restroom. Willa returned from the ladies room, and not seeing Earl, walked out to the truck, thinking he might be waiting for her there. He wasn’t there, but she decided he’d be along shortly, so she waited. 

Meanwhile, Earl came out of the bathroom and not seeing Willa, decided to wait for her on a bench in the lobby. He waited so long that he began to think Willa had used the bathroom as a ploy to ditch him. Finally, he walked outside to find Willa patiently waiting at the truck. 

Willa and Earl were married on January 26, 1980 at The Gospel Lighthouse, a little church on Bogen Rd.  Paula Sue, Vicky and Junior, Willa’s children, were welcomed to the family. The newlyweds had planned a honeymoon in Florida, but postponed it for a couple reasons. First, there was no one who could cover milking the cows at that time. Secondly, the two spent the entire day after their wedding at Sturgis hospital awaiting the birth of daughter Sue’s first child, baby Joseph Taylor. 

Willa’s fondest memories have to do with travel and camping, something Earl wasn’t able to do much of before retiring. They enjoyed driving to northern Michigan in the spring to camp and hunt for mushrooms in the rich loam of the forests. They would carry their booty back to the trailer where the mushrooms were washed, split, dredged in flour and fried in a pan of butter. Can anything be more satisfying than a meal of butter-infused mushrooms after a day tramping in the woods?

Willa was a skilled woodworker, having at one time worked as a cabinet maker. For several years she, with Earl’s help, created wooden figures that they sold at craft fairs on weekends. 

Earl and Willa enjoy spending time with Clarence and Joyce Hahn, sharing many common interests.  Joyce was Sharon’s cousin and cohort when the two met their future husbands so long ago.

Today, Earl lives less than one-half mile from the place of his birth. Chronic illness has slowed him, but his German stubbornness and can-do outlook keep him hopeful for better health and a few more years on this planet. He remains close to his brothers and sisters, wife and children.  He loves to fish, walk daily to the barn and putter as much as possible.  

If land and trees and houses could tell their secrets, this property would speak of nearly 100 years of one family’s devotion. Four generations of Hahns have loved, toiled, married, raised families and died on this farm. Earl may be the last Hahn to actually farm the land, but he knows that at least part of the farm will stay in the family. It’s not exactly his dream, but for a man whose glass is half full, it will do. 

Whatever happens in the future, Hahn blood and sweat has mingled with the soil for decades, forging a bond with the land that will endure forever. If one pays attention, the Hahn spirit will always be felt in the breeze that drifts over the fields. 

Written for Dad on his 79^th birthday.

By Debbie

Many thanks to all my siblings, and everyone else who contributed their stories. Special gratitude goes to nephew David Hahn, and cousin Joyce Hahn for sharing their knowledge of the Hahn genealogy. I’m grateful to all of Dad’s siblings and their spouses for telling their stories; I spoke to each one of them. 

Finally, thank you, Dad . No book or set of books could contain the memories, feelings and love your family has for you.