The Furrow and the
Faith of Tim Alexander
Winamac,
Indiana
June 4, 1957 – July 5, 2025
born in the spring of ’57, just like Susan,
down along
the Tippecanoe,
where the
same frogs sang at dusk
and
cornfields whispered old hymns.
No one
called me Fred.
Just Tim.
Occasionally
Big Roller
Dad to
some,
PawPaw to
others.
I was never
seen without my smile.
I spent my
life on the farm,
and nearly
as long
beside Sue.
We met
young,
married
younger,
and came
home with more ambition than acres.
She handled
the books.
I handled
the fields.
She ran the
home.
I ran the barn.
Truth is,
we ran together.
Most good
things in my life
came by way
of her.
We started
with nothing,
except
faith,
a used
tractor,
and the
belief that hard work meant something.
I always
believed God gave us this land
not to own
it,
but to care
for it.
And we did.
Over forty
years of planting, raising, rebuilding,
and praying
the frost came late.
I played
golf,
planted
corn, raised hogs,
chased
Susan,
and made
lifelong friends along the way.
It was in
Winamac
where we
built a farm from the fencerow up
and raised
three kids
who turned
out better than I deserved.
Falling
from that ladder changed things,
but it
didn’t change me.
I just
moved up to the management team,
as I liked
to say.
I still
checked the crops.
Still made
the jokes.
Still
showed up.
I liked
reading plaques on museum walls,
watching
the Bears win or lose,
same with
the Boilermakers
and sending
out new songs on Mondays.
But nothing
beat a Euchre hand or Uno with the grandkids,
or a drive
with Sue
to see how
the neighbors’ beans were doing.
We called
it “road farming,”
And it was
our kind of church, our time together.
I never
chased status.
I just
wanted to leave the land better than I found it
and the
people, too.
And now,
Lord willing,
I can walk
hand in hand with Susan
across an
endless field without fences,
through
rows that never end.
