Ruth Ehman | Contributor

I can't even remember his last name.

Ernie was already a very old man when I met him 10 years ago. He was an avid goose hunter and, even at his advanced age, still yearned to be afield during the fall hunting season.

An acquaintance of mine had been Ernie's hunting guide for the past several years, taking him all over the country on adventures both land based and on water. But the time had come when Ernie was just too old to be schlepping over muddy ground and bouncing on the waves all day in pursuit of waterfowl.

You will pass a nice sized pond on your right as you come up my driveway to the house and barnyard. Adjacent this pond is a hay field of approximately eight acres rising in a gentle sweep southward to meet the main pasture; it's bordered by a woodlot to the west.

My farm is located in a multi-lake region where cultivated fields of corn and soybeans are still common; prime fly way for geese fattening up in preparation for winter. One of my joys in life is watching and listening to the flocks winging overhead through the autumn months as they travel back and forth from daytime feeding in the fields and evening resting on the lakes.

The hay field is usually mowed and baled a few weeks prior to the onset of these daily migrations; the grasses will carpet this expanse with tender new growth by the time the geese are flying.

Canada geese are very fond of fresh green grass; with the pond extending additional invitation it is common for flocks to drop in throughout the fall. It doesn't draw the huge groups more typical of grain fields but you can pretty much count on a few here and there stopping by most days in September and October.

And that is how I came to meet Ernie. Here was a spot he could access with relative ease and still indulge his passion for goose hunting. He could be driven into the field before sunup and settled comfortably in a camouflaged upslope position with clear shooting range.

My friend would have time to set Ernie up and still get off to more challenging hunting grounds knowing I'd be up and about doing farm chores and could keep an eye on him. The house was all downhill from where Ernie would be settled and he was capable of making his own way in from the field when ready. There he could make himself comfortable while waiting for the more adventurous hunters to return. Never mind that he usually fell asleep shortly after being put in field position; he was still out there hunting!

Ernie would have had enough of hunting about the time I finished in the barn mid morning. Sometimes I'd see him standing up to come in so I'd walk out to meet him and help carry his gear. Other times he'd have beat me in and would be drinking coffee at the table when I got there.

Either way we'd chat while I made us some breakfast. And chatting with Ernie was a challenge in itself. He had a very thick accent, talked in staccato sentences, and would jump from one subject to another without preamble. Conversation with Ernie was a matter of nodding and smiling while gleaning what bits of cohesive information you could along the way.

Here's some of what I gathered from our chats. Luckily he would repeat the same stories when we were together so I could refine the facts.

Ernie grew up in Italy and during World War II and was in his teens when the Axis powers began conscripting young boys to send to the front. Ernie had no desire to participate though of course these boys weren't given any choice. Fleeing the cities and hiding out were options to avoid conscription, but Ernie came up with another way. He disguised himself as a girl.

This worked for him because he was short and slight, though he related how, even as a girl, he wasn't entirely safe as the occupying soldiers were prone to rape and, of course, woe to him should he be found out this way. He said what really saved him was being so ugly!

Having survived the war he spent time in North Africa as a policeman, and then hopped a boat to America. Once here he stole a wheelbarrow and some hand tools and set himself up in the cement business as a laborer in the rapidly expanding post-war building industry. He lived the American dream — jumped at opportunity, worked hard and made himself a success. He could afford to have someone squire him around in his final years just so he could try to shoot a goose.

You'd never have known he was well off though. He always wore the same tattered sweater. Didn't come loaded down with all the latest and greatest hunting gear; just a simple folding chair and old gun.

His stories were of the old days, bad times, good dogs, and family. He had lots of family back in Italy and he liked to tell me about their farms and vineyards. Ernie greatly admired my gardens and farmyard and they gave us common ground for our conversations. We talked about his garden in the city, how his backyard was a jumble of grapevines he'd been nurturing for decades; another lifelong passion. He brought us wine he had made from those grapes; a generous gift that I admit went undrunk. That stuff would dissolve paint!

Then Ernie brought me grapevines. He showed up for one of his last hunts here with several slips started off the old vines in his back yard — vines his aunt had brought him so long ago from the family farm in Italy. These were a precious connection to his roots, and he took pains to explain the importance of his gesture.

He knew his time was nearing an end. He knew his home would be sold, the grape vines probably removed. He trusted me to continue his legacy He told me he could die happy knowing his grapes would live on here.

I've told you a long story though shown you but fleeting fragments of an even longer life I had mere glimpses of myself. And yet I can look at these grapes every day and feel the gnarled, rough hand of my old friend holding mine through the mystical dimensions of time and space.

This spring I had to move the grapes, and I agonized over the possibility that the now-mature root stock would not survive relocation. The decision had been made to convert what had been a riding ring into a sheep and goat paddock. The grapes had been trellised on the fence panels of the ring; I needed to reuse the panels elsewhere and the sheep and goats would have eaten up the vines if I had left them there.

I took the precaution of taking slips from this year's new growth, but took even more care to dig and transplant the original vines in a manner to optimize their chances. I have been blessed with their vigorous regrowth, especially fortuitous since my horse ate the slips I set in a bucket of water behind the barn.

All except one. One of the vines doesn't look like it is going to make it. It has put out a few feeble shoots which have withered and dropped; even this attempt has ceased the past few weeks. A bare brown stem, it stands there mutely representing another life now gone. I'll leave it there too. The other vines will grow over and around it, symbolic in their way of ongoing life.

I can't even remember his last name, but Ernie lives on both here in the soil and sunshine of my farm and in my heart.

Ruth Ehman has been farming her 53 acres north of Dexter for 25 years. Recently retired from a "real job" she now makes her living producing "real food" including operating a dairy, and teaching others skills conducive to a small, diverse family farm lifestyle. Contact her at firesignfamilyfarm.com or ruthehman@live.com