As I write this column, I’m happy to announce that so far ol’ Nevah and I have survived the Great Blizzard of 2025. The blizzard blew in starting on Saturday. It grew in velocity and ferocity through the night and through the entire day on Sunday.

Winds were so strong from the north that the poor songbirds eating at my bird feeder could not fly north despite their best efforts. They had to fly south. I’d guess the wind speeds were close to 40 mph. The combination of snow and blow cut visibility down to about 100 yards. The temperatures plunged, too, down to well below zero.

When the blizzard blew itself out on Monday, officials said it left 17-inches of snow. I have no idea how to measure the average amount of snow when looking outdoors it ranges in depth from zero to drifts 5-feet high. But, 17-inches is official.

For snow removal, we were lucky. Our son-in-law, ol’ Harley Ryder, commandeered a big skid steer to ride. He cleared our driveways and garage pads in short order, then went into Riley to help with snow removal there.

Now, I’ve resumed writing on Wednesday. We’ve still had no mail delivery and the reason is the mail trucks from the regional mail center in Kansas City haven’t made local deliveries yet.

At coffee this morning, guys in the country reported that the north/south roads have been plowed, but not the east/west roads. There are still unclaimed cars in the ditches in places.

Nevah and I left Iowa more than 20 years ago in hopes that we’d escape such nasty winter weather. Well, it took a while, but that plan blew up in our faces.

This blizzard reminded me of those we had regularly when I wuz a kid. I recall many times when the Yield family wuz snowed in for days. I remember my dad, Czar E. Yield, just sitting 10-gallon metal milk cans in snow drifts to keep the milk cold until the milk hauler could beat the drifts and come get our milk.

I can remember making tunnels under the snow drifts in the road ditches as a kid. I have no idea why the tunnels didn’t cave in on me and smother me, but they didn’t. I also remember we kids attending the one-room school were excited when it snowed because it gave us an opportunity to play the game Fox-And-Geese in the snow.

It’s still cold, but it seems the worst of the Great Blizzard of ’25 is in our rear view mirror. Who knows? Maybe global warming is reversed.

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I sadly report that one of my best near-lifetime friends has checked into the eternal news room of the sky. Larry Perrine, one of the co-founders of FARM TALK, died last week in Texas, close to Leander, Tex., near his son . He wuz a friend for more than 60 years. I’ve referred to him in my columns by his Milo Yield nickname, ol’ Elpee Peavine.

It would take a book to chronicle all the good times and experiences Elpee and I had, but I will hit just a few high spots of our friendship history. Elpee and I met in college journalism classes at Bea Wilder U II in Stillwater, Okla., and worked in the same office after we graduated. We were both newlyweds. Our first children were born during those years.

After a few years, we both ended up moving and working in university communications at Bea Wilder U I in Manhattan, Kan. After three years there, I moved to Pullman, Wash., to work at Wazzou University. We stayed in touch and managed to work out a family vacation together in Utah.

About that time, we both began to question if academic work wuz our ultimate career choice. We both had entrepreneurial aspirations. After much long-distance consultation and planning, we hit upon the idea of founding a regional agricultural newspaper covering the four-corners area of Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma and Arkansas. FARM TALK wuz the name we hit upon.

Eventually, we decided upon Parsons, Kan., as home base. We acquired a bank loan that seems ridiculously small by today’s standards. In December of 1973, we both U-Hauled our families to Parsons and hit the ground running the day after Christmas. The first FARM TALK hit the mails on Feb. 4, 1974. This is the truth — we did not take a day off from work until Memorial Day, 1974. Giving credit where it’s due, it wuz Elpee who dubbed me “Milo Yield” and conjured up the “Viewing the Field” name for this column.

Within a few months, FARM TALK had a aggie bizness toe-hold that allowed it to hang on and keep up slow growth through a significant drought and across-the-board commodity price declines that stressed both the paper and its farmer and agribusiness clientele.

Alas, after a lot of the heavy lifting and most of the risk-taking were done, Elpee — a small town kid from Pawnee, Okla. and not a true farm kid — decided there wuz little about aggie journalism that had long-range career appeal for him. So, by mutual and amicable agreement our professional lives parted, but with no lasting effect on our cemented friendship.

As FARM TALK began to thrive, Elpee moved to other journalistic endeavors in he energy sector at Bryan, Tex., Bartlesville, Okla., and eventually permanently to Albuquerque, N.M., where he directed publications for Sandia National Energy Laboratories until retirement.

During all those years, our families managed to share a lot of time together. We vacationed, played 100s of holes of cow pasture pool, did a bit of hunting, caught and ate copious amounts of fish, enjoyed country music shows and dances, laughed until our sides hurt, played nasty practical jokes on each other, played cards and games, and drank plenty of adult beverages and ate like hogs.

Losing Elpee is like losing a brother. But, the neuropathy that pained him so much in his later years, and the pneumonia that ultimately claimed him, are now history. It’s a comfort to know Elpee is in pain free peace. Our memories live on.

Elpee, ol’ buddy, wherever it is you’re casting a lure, teeing it up, or tuning in Merle Haggard, save me a seat.

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Words of wisdom for the week: “Cherish your friends and savor their friendship. They don’t last forever.” Have a good ‘un.