specifically her walking to the chicken coop and grabbing one of the unlucky chickens by the feet. She then walked over to the worn beat up shed were she would sit down on a dirty old stool next to a huge stump of what used to be a tree. Quietly and swiftly, she'd place the helpless chicken across the stump placing the neck outstretched. Then, with one quick movement of a hatchet, the head of the chicken would roll to the ground. She would stand up and set the body of the chicken on the ground and watch, as we kids would scramble to catch a headless chicken. The chicken would run every which way, providing us with a brief moment of chaos as we scrambled to catch it. My grandmother would laugh for hours recalling all the different techniques that we tried to catch this headless chicken. It was one moment in the summer that really brought every one together.
             My grandmother wasn't all laughs; she'd had her set backs, too. She lost her husband, my grandpa, when my dad was a senior in college. My grandpa died of a heart attack on Christmas Day, which ironically is my dad's birthday. My dad and mom, who were engaged at the time, rushed him to the Madison emergency room. The distance ended up being too great, as my grandpa died in the car. My grandmother went on running the farm by herself another ten years before her death. It took every inch of her soul to keep going after the death of her husband, but during that time she helped raise all thirty-two of her grandchildren by keeping us on the farm whenever we weren't in school. Her example, back in my earlier years, remains the source of most of my strength that I have today.
             Her strength was not the most important thing to my grandmother. The most valuable possession that she had was her family. She loved her family more than anything and spent every waking moment with them. She'd send for her grandchildren whenever there was a moment&apo...