The Porch Pause

Hailey Holzworth

On Sunday, September 20, 2015, I sat in my dad’s 2000 GMC burgundy long box pickup. I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and thought about how much better this flight to the farm sounded the night before. I jumped out and headed to the hangar when I heard the squeal of the door as it reluctantly opened. Dad expertly pulled the Citabria out, his hands gripping the thick inward edges of the prop. I lowered the oversized bi-fold door from the switch in the southwest corner of his hangar. 

“You’re up front today!” he said.

I hopped in as Dad planted his right foot closest to the door and spun into the backseat—a trick he learned when the scale moved closer to 300 than 200. He prompted me with the proper procedure, which seemed overly complex to an eight-year-old. 

“Clear prop!” I yelled, and the engine sputtered to life. 

He taxied to the end of runway 29 because my feet didn’t yet reach the rudder pedals, let alone the heel brakes when fully suppressed. Dad told me what to say on the radio, and I repeated it perfectly after two practice rounds.

“Sidney traffic N743JF westbound departure runway 29 Sidney,” said my young voice.

My great-grandparents’ house, long ago abandoned, sat about a mile east of our destination. They were German immigrants who somehow wound up in Eastern Montana around the small town of Bloomfield. Their small house quickly disappeared beneath us as our entrance to the farm came into view—a gravel road situated between two recently harvested wheat fields. At the end of the road, sat the quonset, leading into the large yard with grain bins, a shop, garage, and house. Dad made a pass over the shop to see the direction of the weather vane sitting atop it. He greased the landing with ease, proof of his long tenure in commercial aviation. We taxied into the yard and parked directly across from the house, abeam the weather-vaned shop. 

My dad had been visiting the family farm since he was in high school. Having grown up in Iowa, he came out during the summers to escape city life and help with harvest.. He’d since made Big Sky Country home. The familiar two-story, white house adorned with green shutters greeted us as we walked to the cedar-planked porch. Papa Bill, my dad’s uncle, waved enthusiastically, his half-missing thumb accentuated. He took over my great grandparents’ farming operation many years prior but had recently retired. Nana Pat emerged from the storm door at the center of the porch. 

“Hi Barry, want some coffee?” she said.

Farm coffee was better than coffee anywhere else. The Folgers coffee mingled perfectly with the tastefully mineraled well water. With a splash of heavy whipping cream, one of Nana Pat’s kitchen staples, nothing could top it. With my mug in hand, a white ceramic cup with Edmonton, Alberta, displayed at the top and the city below, I made my way out to the porch.

Even at eight, I remember thinking how life seemed to push the pause button on mornings at the farm.  The rolling hills sprawled out for miles in every direction, the antique red hand-crank water pump the focal point in the front lawn. A slight breeze sometimes wobbled the trees, stirring up the light scent of sweet clover, and an occasional grain truck rattled down County Road 523 to the right of us. Fall temperatures had perfectly cooled down the night, leaving a nice crisp morning where steam rose above Edmonton. 

 Papa Bill sat in the chair closest to the door, his feet propped up on a green plastic footstool. “Well I better pick up these damned apples before I mow the lawn,” he said. 

Those “damned apples” helped him fill his free time. Dad and I both knew retiring from farming left him bored. He meticulously cared for and cleaned their vehicles and shops, organized his tools above his work bench, and overmowed the extra large yard.

Nana Pat and I sat on the other side of the porch and talked about her sewing project. She was working on a quilt for her son, Travis. She showed me her latest finds from The Attic, her favorite thrift store. 

“Now don’t you tell Papa Bill about this stuff, Hailey Dailey,” she said.

I could hear what he would have to say about it: Patty, would you quit buying all this Goddamned crap! Their love language rode a fine line of emotional abuse, but I found it humorous. Time escaped us. Far too soon, we hopped back in the little red and white taildragger and returned to our regularly scheduled responsibilities.  

On Friday, July 14, 2017, my mom, dad, and I headed out to the farm for dinner. Dad pulled the burgundy pickup over when we hit the gravel road in Lambert. He had been teaching me to drive on our farm trips for a while now. This time was different though—Mom was with. She embraced the experience by cracking a Cayman Jack Margarita in the backseat. This was inconsistent with her character as she was apprehensive about putting her life in the hands of her ten-year-old daughter.

The drive was going well. We passed Eastern Montana Bible Camp, which was about a mile north of the farm. My great-grandfather, Ed, donated the land for the camp many years ago, and it had since become a highly populated summer destination for kids from all around. Just as I descended the last hill before the farm, we saw a huge bloom of black smoke to the southeast of us. It looked like it was coming from Norman and JoAnne’s place, the closest neighbors. Dad decided he would go investigate with the side-by-side when we got there. I slowed down to make the left turn onto the quarter-mile gravel driveway as sirens sounded from behind. A gasp of horror escaped my mouth as Dad grabbed the wheel to keep me to the right of the road. I thought for sure I was headed for jail. The Lambert Volunteer Fire Department pick-up quickly passed us, heading for the smoke. We got out and mounted the porch, the pungent smokey odor filling my nose. 

“Norm’s field went up after the bailer caught fire!” Papa Bill said. 

“JoAnne is soaking her house with a hose,” Nana Pat said. 

The guys headed to check out the action while Mom and I sat inside and chatted with Nana Pat as she finished dinner. The menu tonight consisted of a farm delicacy—goulash with green beans and cucumbers from the garden. Just as dinner was done, the side-by-side lurched into the driveway; it was like they had an internal dinner bell. 

Dad said, “Fire’s out. They lost about twenty acres though.” 

Knowing it could easily have been much worse, I thought about how fast life can change. Losing the farm, a multi-generational landmark of our family and cornerstone of my upbringing, seemed unspeakable.

We filled our plates and took our seats on the porch. The creamy Velveeta, hamburger, macaroni, and homemade stewed tomato mixture was perfectly complemented by soft and salty green beans (which were smothered in heavy whipping cream). The cuke salad, with perfect proportions of apple cider vinegar, sugar, salt, and cream, was another delicious addition. 

Papa Bill asked, “Barry, Marlo, want a Lime-a-Rita?” They accepted—it is another farm delicacy, after all. He quickly retrieved the white, green, and blue canned beverage that filled the shop fridge and poured them a jar full. The time effortlessly passed on as the sun slipped in the horizon. As we headed home, I admired the bright orange and pink hues that painted the sky to the west, fulfilling the name of God’s Country. 

On Friday, August 12, 2022, nine months after my dad’s death, the evening’s crowd outgrew the 12×30–foot porch. Lawn chairs made a half-circle in front of the porch. Holzworths from all over the country had made their way back to our Montana homestead. 

There was Mark, my dad’s cousin, who once made a cabin in the woods without power tools. He really stood out because Odie, a dog of the family, nearly ate him alive. Travis, Bill and Pat’s middle child, made sure everyone’s drinks were full. Kris, my dad’s sister, caught everyone’s eye with an N19 mask fixed to her face. Christy, my cousin’s wife, stood at the steps of the porch yelling, “Hailey, where are you?” as I sat straight in front of her. The Whiteclaws got the best of her that night. The crowd was jovial, lasting well into the night. Mark and Travis were the last men standing. Travis said they talked about politics and UFOs until after midnight. 

The next morning, I sat on the porch with my Edmonton mug, snuggled in a thick blue blanket to stave off the coolness. The coffee was hot and flowed steadily. The porch was bustling again today although most of the members from last night had made their way to bible camp to sleep. There was only room at the farm for the best of the family. Nana Pat, Papa Bill, Teri, their oldest daughter, and Travis reminisced about the night. 

“Is Kris ever going to take that mask off?” Papa Bill wondered. 

“Mark is a pretty interesting guy,” Travis said. 

I sat back and soaked in the conversation. I was happy to live in the porch pause this morning. Soon though, I was running behind for the day. I quickly put on a gray t-shirt dress, curled my hair, and headed up the hill for bible camp. Cars of friends and family members filled the parking lot. Some I recognized, others were foreign. I made my way inside the dining hall and soon became overwhelmed by hugs and introductions. I greeted them all, but when lunch busied the masses, I found my way over to the morning porch crowd, which was seated at the far end of the room. 

“Good turnout!” Teri said. I certainly agreed. 

When lunch was finished we made our way into the chapel. After my grandpa and two aunts completed their speeches, I walked up the two-stepped stage. I planted myself behind the wooden platform, heavily resting my arms on top around my pre-typed pages. The microphone was the right height. I knew if I looked out at the audience before starting, I wouldn’t start at all. I shared many memories of my dad, hoping to accurately commemorate him:

When I think about my dad I think about the storytelling, phone-talking, fun-having, flying, and generous person that he was. Growing up with Barry Holzworth as my dad was really something—I never knew if I would be spending the day watching Gilligan’s Island, flying out to the farm for coffee, or hanging out at the airport. Whatever the occasion, he made sure to make a lesson out of everything. These lessons were great and, sometimes, did not work out in his favor. 

One time Dad, with his heavy right foot, flippantly made the comment, “Oh these cops, they don’t got the time to worry about pulling me over!” which was shortly followed by sirens and a ticket. When it came time to pay this ticket, I was counting my money that I had made from working for him that summer. He asked to borrow some so I reluctantly handed over the cash—in hindsight I had likely just cleaned out his wallet. Later that day he taught me a lesson on interest which ended with him paying quite a high rate.

Another thing that was certain was being with Barry meant never being hungry. Nana Pat’s cooking will always remind me of him because he LOVED eating at the farm. Now this is great and all but with loving food came breaking chairs. At a family friend’s wedding, he managed to destroy a folding chair to smithereens and land under the floor–length table cloth in pure darkness. When he would tell this story he said, “Barry, you gotta get yourself up before someone comes over here and does something stupid like give you mouth to mouth.” As he emerged from underneath the table, he was met with cackling laughter and a nurse nearly ready to give that mouth to mouth. While I do not think our friends got their chair rental deposit back, we all enjoyed the laugh.

Dad really never got too riled up about anything. Many were surprised by his eagerness to allow others to fly. One day we hopped in our 1947 7DC Aeronca Champ and headed for the farm. Right after take-off the radios stopped working, leaving me stranded in the quiet front seat. Now I am not THAT directionally challenged but we were on a scenic route. And did he help me out? Not at all. He sat back and watched the show. Nonetheless, we made it, and that is what I am going to think of from now on: he is with me, I just can’t hear him, but he is there watching to make sure I get where I am going safely.

Having been reduced to tears near the end, I was happy to return to my seat and listen as the rest of the room shared their memories. My cousin, Kayla, told a tale of the bucking bronco in which my dad played the bronco attempting to rid his back of his young niece. She had since continued the tradition with her nieces and nephews. Travis told a less-than-appropriate tale including a clogged toilet and my parents’ first “motel date.” That was not a family favorite but I greatly appreciated the lightening of the mood in the room.

After many more Barry stories, we all returned to the farm to celebrate life, both his and ours, and make some new memories. I stepped out onto the porch from the farmhouse. 

“Smoking in the closet again, I see,” I teased Teri. She isolated herself as she indulged in a cigarette. 

Drinks were flowing again, a Holzworth family gathering requirement. I sat in a green plastic outdoor chair, hot from the summer sun, and soaked in my surroundings. Troy, Bill and Pat’s final child, was on my left. He played with his drone, wearing my dad’s blue Adidas polo. He even mentioned wearing it in his speech at bible camp. Strange. Travis stood behind me and ate a grasshopper to creep out one of my second cousins. 

“Eww!” she screeched. 

Papa Bill sat in a circle with his siblings and various others. His storytelling encapsulated farm life—the whole group focused on him. Everywhere else, cousins chatted, describing their lives and accomplishments, reminiscing about growing up together and visiting the farm. I wasn’t sure if I fit into any of these groups anymore, with my link to the older generations gone. Not feeling like making small talk with distant relatives, I waited until the crowd inevitably dwindled down to the morning porch group.

Travis passed out shots of his best friend Crown Royal, and we all toasted, “To Barry!” I thought about how unimpressed my dad would have been at his cousin for giving his fifteen-year-old daughter a shot. On one hand, it seemed like a regular day at the farm. But on the other hand, everything felt off.

Now, the familiarity of this special place greets me on short weekend trips when I am home from college. Each time I turn onto the driveway, I am reminded of the large portion of memories that I owe to the farm. The mere journey there has taught me how to fly, drive, and escape the longarm of the law. The conversations have taught me how to love, empathize, tease, be teased, and laugh. Each visit, both past and present, reminds me of the unknown hourglass timer that secretly determines each of our destinies. Not only has the farm witnessed the loss of my dad, but now Papa Bill has slowed down; he’s not his usual unstill self anymore. His hip pain, stiffness, and slow memory loss prevent him from being who he was in 2015. Nana Pat even mows the lawn, something that would have never happened a decade ago.

Today, August 30, 2025, Mom and I head for the farm. Nana Pat, Papa Bill, and the two of us sit on the porch and chat, following a traditional farm dinner that was accompanied by a scrumptious slice of chocolate cake. Teri and Travis have mentioned their dad’s continual repetition of stories, a sign of what’s to come. Being nervous to notice it, I am pleasantly surprised that in one place, he is unchanged: the porch. He sits in the same spot and explores stories that I have never heard before. He shares about his time at the University of Minnesota, working  as a night watchman at a glass-encased bank where once, under his guard, there was an attempted robbery. Another constant is his signature Lime-a-Rita, which sits on the coffee table between us. For now, I can avoid the upcoming changes and loss of the future, by sitting in the porch pause. 

Nana Pat sends me off with a box of garden goods including potatoes, apples, and canned peaches. As we head down the driveway for home, I gaze over to the porch. Papa Bill waves goodbye, his half-missing thumb once again accentuated. I try to permanently fix that image in my mind, like pressing the pause button on a television, capturing the moment.

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