Dad says he's going to have a pumpkin patch next year, and not just any pumpkin patch. He envisions 500 of the orange gourds planted on a gentle slope not far from the house in which I grew up.

At 82, growing things still figures into his plans. The expansive pieces of machinery used to till his 500-acre Minnesota farm have long been put away or sold to the few remaining farmers in the area.

Last year my father had a big garden, and inadvertently wound up with a prolific pumpkin patch. He didn't even realize he had planted pumpkins. Apparently a bag of old seeds Mom had saved through the years were in his pocket and somehow spilled out slowly as he was planting watermelon.

It didn't take long for the pumpkin plants to smother the watermelon, and to his surprise, he wound up with about 60 pumpkins they proceeded to sell at an impromptu produce stand along a busy highway.

Pleased with his newfound pumpkin prowess, he looked forward to a repeat performance. This past summer, though, medical problems prevented him from planting anything, and other than a few tomato plants my mother tended, the farm was dormant this year.

I was home for a visit earlier this month, and felt the strange quiet that's descended on the land.

Almost all of the strongest memories I have of Dad are of him in a productive capacity, working the land during every available bit of daylight from spring to autumn, stopping only for a couple of hours every morning and night to milk 30 or 40 cows.

He was a tower of strength and delighted in bulging his biceps for us when we were small. My brothers and I would hang on those biceps as he'd walk us around the room. He'd hoist us up on his shoulders or grab our hands and swing us in circles until we were falling-down dizzy.

I remember some tough times, too, like the time he stood by the living-room window, his face ashen as he watched a late-summer hail storm pulverize the crops. The only time I ever saw him cry during my entire childhood was when a neighbor boy who was helping with the harvest got his leg caught in the machine that chopped corn for silage. Not knowing how bad the injury was, Dad met us on the driveway when we got home that evening, and sobbed as he recounted the accident. As it turned out, the injury wasn't life-threatening and the boy recovered fully.

I think my three brothers and I all developed a love of the land, each in our own way. During my recent "R and R" trip home, I read Pearl Buck's Pulitzer Prize-winning classic, "The Good Earth," about a Chinese farmer who draws strength from his own land to face life's woes. The coincidence of that particular book at that particular time was not lost on me. My father has also drawn strength from the land; it nurtures his spirit.

As I was driving off one evening while I was home, I watched Dad as he walked slowly to the barn with a pail of food for a few stray cats, the only occupants now of the huge outbuilding. I felt my throat catch and tears welled up as the realization washed over me that both of my parents are very much in the autumn of life.

How much longer they can live on the farm remains to be seen. Mom tried to broach the subject of moving not long ago with Dad, only to have him break down in tears at the breakfast table. Dealing with aging parents is difficult for everyone faced with the decisions of how they should spend their final years. Tearing someone away from the land where he's spent his entire life adds another dimension of pain.

I hope they can manage their rural lifestyle for a few more years. I hope, at the very least, for one more good pumpkin patch.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com