John Block Reports from Washington

Here I am, on the farm in Illinois. Just being here brings back memories of my mother. It happens to be Mother's Day weekend, but those fond memories come to mind whenever I stand in the yard in front of the wooden frame house where I grew up; whenever I look at a new born litter of baby pigs and whenever I walk the newly planted corn fields. You can just smell the special aroma of freshly worked soil.

I can 't help but recall all the noon meals that my mother cooked for hired men. How many urgent errands she ran to the John Deere dealership for parts. How many washer loads of shirts and jeans smelling of the hog barn she washed. How she worried for our safety, our health and our happiness. There is really something special about mothers. They worry and care for their young even after their young are grown up. Even after they get old! Even if their babies fail to measure up to their expectations, they can always make some excuse for them.

Visiting my mother's grave prompts me to share this poem with you today.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am gentle autumn's rain . Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there.
I did not die.

As I stand at the grave site of my mother and father, memories flood my mind. I sure do miss them. No, they are not really in the grave. They are watching from the heavens as the new corn spikes through the soil.

To all the mothers out there... thank you and we love you.

Until next week, I am John Block down on the farm.