A Galveston memory stitched with feathers, laughter, and the soft sounds of springtime.

It was springtime in Galveston, Indiana—warm enough for open car windows and cool enough for long sleeves. Daddy had decided it was time to add a few new animals to the yard, so we all loaded up and drove to the hatchery in Kokomo. Now, we didn’t go inside—no, us kids had to sit in the car and wait, probably squirming and giggling, trying to peek through the windows and guess what he was bringing out.

When Daddy finally came back, he wasn’t empty-handed.

He walked out carrying boxes full of tiny peeping, chirping life—turkeys, ducks, and what seemed like a dozen or more baby chicks. We were wide-eyed, noses pressed to the glass, already picking out favorites and wondering which ones might follow us around the yard. I remember those fuzzy ducklings like it was yesterday, all waddly and soft, and the turkeys? Well, they made themselves known in a hurry.

Turkeys struttin’ their stuff with Daddy’s car and the Chevy in the background—pure small-town nostalgia.

This one was always on the move—feathers fluffed, chasing shadows across the Galveston hill.

These big boys fanned their feathers like they were in a beauty contest—showin’ off just how grand life in the backyard could be.

The 8 ducks Daddy brought home—lined up and ready for duty. One for each kid, waddling through the yard like feathered siblings in a row.

We raised 'em right there in the backyard. There was always clucking, quacking, and gobbling goin’ on, especially in the mornings when everyone was waking up. And wouldn’t you know, those birds weren’t just livestock to us—they were part of the family for a time. I reckon they helped shape the way we grew up: close to the land, surrounded by life, and always a little dusty from playin’ in the yard.