Mr. Cleaves, Orrie, as folks called you, we whisked past the old farm today here on Quakertown hill. I was caused to think of you.

Would you even recognize the place now? The dairy barn is gone, just recently torn down. The beer grains pit is gone. The Capron boys kept that full, didn’t they?

No, there’s scarcely a sign of your decades of toil that happened here. Kind of a shame, isn’t it? Folks blink as they drive by and see not a vestige of your life’s work.

But, hey, all that any of us did was milk cows. That’s not cause for any carving in stone. Just know, Mr. Cleaves that your years of labor are silently woven in to the fabric of this windswept hill.

To this day, a farm kid 50 years your junior writes about what you did.