Many years ago, I had the genuine pleasure of working with one of the hardest-working farmers in the Two Hills area, Bob Bachelet. I always called him "Uncle Bob" because he and my dad were such close friends that they referred to each other as brothers. Before long, he felt like family to me too.

In the summer of 2014, I had just returned home after a stay in the St. Paul hospital. One afternoon, I was sitting on the couch watching television when I heard a knock at the door.

It was Uncle Bob.

"Hey there, young feller!" he said in his familiar, fatherly voice. "Whatcha doing?"

"Nothing much, Uncle Bob. Just relaxing," I replied with a smile.

"How come you're not at work?"

"I don't have a job at the moment," I admitted, a little embarrassed.

He took off his hat, scratched his head for a moment and said, "You know, I could use a hand on the farm if you'd be up to it."

"I'd love to," I answered without hesitation.

I had always been fascinated by farming. Growing up in town, I had absolutely no experience with it, but there was something remarkable about the idea of working the land that had always appealed to me.

"Great," he said. "Meet me at my place at eight sharp."

The next morning, I woke up eager for my first day. After feeding my dog, Nero, and chugging down a quick cup of coffee, I headed out. Since Uncle Bob lived just down the road, I decided to walk. It wasn't far, and the quiet country road made for a beautiful start to the day.

I arrived a few minutes before eight and knocked on the door.

"Come on in there, young feller. Have a seat. You drink coffee?"

He was already standing at the stove making breakfast.

"Actually, Uncle Bob, I'm ready to get to work if you've got something for me to start on," I said, trying to politely decline despite the mouth-watering smell of bacon filling the kitchen.

"Nonsense," he replied, pouring me a cup of coffee. "We're gonna have breakfast first. Then we can get to it."

Looking back, I'm glad I didn't argue.

After a hearty breakfast, we headed outside to begin the day's work. I have always tried to stay in reasonably good shape—well, perhaps "reasonably" is doing a lot of heavy lifting—but I quickly discovered I was no match for Uncle Bob. He tossed hay bales around as though they were made of paper while I struggled to keep up.

By lunchtime, I was completely worn out.

Back in the house, another hot, delicious meal was waiting. We'd sit together, eat, chat for a while, and then head back outside for the afternoon's work. Every day followed much the same rhythm: a hearty breakfast, honest work, a wonderful lunch, and countless conversations.

Working alongside a lifelong farmer was an education in itself. Like a sponge, I soaked up everything he taught me—from planting a productive garden to the gravity-flow irrigation system he had built and perfected over the years.

When the season finally came to an end, he thanked me for my help and said that if he ever needed anything, he'd give me a call. He also reminded me that if I ever needed a hand, I should never hesitate to ask.

Not long afterwards, Uncle Bob stopped by with another project.

"I've got something I'd like your help with."

Naturally, I jumped at the chance.

His request, however, caught me completely off guard.

He wanted me to help him gather and prepare the lumber for his coffin.

At the time, I remember thinking it was an unusual request, but I never questioned him. He explained that he wanted to be able to say he had built his own coffin using wood from his own land. He wasn't expecting to pass away anytime soon. He simply wanted to do it himself.

Then he looked at me and said something I have never forgotten.

"Jared, you speak at my funeral and tell people I did that."

My first thought was, Please don't make me speak in public.

What I actually said was, "What would I say?"

He grinned.

"Make something up... you're a good writer."

I remember silently wondering, Am I?

As it turned out, Uncle Bob saw something in me long before I saw it in myself.

Years later, I would decide to take writing seriously. Looking back now, I can't help but smile at the confidence he had in me before I ever had it in myself.

Sadly, I never did get to fulfil that request.

To the Bachelet family, I simply want to say thank you for sharing Uncle Bob with our community. He was one of the kindest, hardest-working and most genuine people I have ever known. His warm smile, gentle humour and fatherly voice remain among my fondest memories.

And to Uncle Bob...

Thank you.

Thank you for the breakfasts, the conversations, the lessons in the garden, the long days of honest work, the Lions Club bingos, and for treating a town kid like he belonged on the farm.

One day, when we meet again, I hope you'll know that although I never got to speak at your funeral, I finally kept my promise by telling your story.

Some requests may remain unfinished.

But some promises simply take a little longer to keep.