Shel-Clair Farms

“How much and where do I sign?” That’s the response I get from most dads of little girls when I give them my best pitch: Get a girls . . .

With each ending comes a new beginning. A marriage ended, raising babies ended, and our 100-year-old family dairy business ended. Wha . . .

I had to have her. She became an obsession with me. She was all I thought about. Her long red hair. Her gentle ways. From the moment . . .

Trout need cold water to survive. I knew this, but I also knew how cold this spring-fed creek was that runs through this property. So . . .

I moved out of my childhood home and into a 2-bedroom, 1-bath, rat and cockroach-infested trailer, but for a boy working his way into . . .

It seemed as if my entire life had come down to this one moment. I was 16 and had been showing dairy cows in competition since I was . . .

I moved to this farm at age eighteen, and except for two years in south Georgia professing to be a “college man,” I’ve spent most of . . .

I watched with amusement as a party balloon settled among the cows. It was one of those helium-filled balloons that probably escaped . . .

I am amazed at how alive a metal coat hanger, hidden among the sheets, can feel against your leg in the predawn hours of the night. I . . .

It happened again this week. Two strangers on the farm, just driving through as if they owned the place. I did the “southern gentlema . . .

I watched as the collection plate made its way in my direction. I was a boy of six and had never missed a day in Sunday School, where . . .

And so begins my favorite week. Hay is in the barn, calving season is over, humidity is gone, and the family is coming home. There are . . .

He takes a sip of his first cup of coffee, steps outside and says “hello” to Belue, his ranch dog and constant companion. They make t . . .