These are the things I remember - the light slate blue color of the bank barn, the rows of Snapper mowers, a black Lab named Hogan, a pony named Diablo, raucous kickball games involving all ages of people, Civil War monuments across the street, and the brick farmhouse kitchen with a fireplace so large I could stand inside it. That was the home of my Uncle Atlee and Aunt Sue Rebert, my dad's sister.

When we were kids the drive to visit them seemed so long. But after the miles from Pottsville to Littlestown rolled under the wheels of the family station wagon, and we neared the farm, there was so much to see, snippets of rural life like tractors and implements in fields, horses in pastures, sheep dotting a hillside.I loved the visits, and thought my cousins Jeff, Scott and Chris had it made. They could ride the pony, take the Lab for a walk, motor around the farm on a red scooter, fish, shoot, build a tree fort, or jump from places in the loft into mounds of fragrant hay. A moatlike pool had been built in front of the farmhouse porch, so that you could dive in and swim its lane, cooling off from a day outside.At the annual family picnic, the kickball game was the highlight. People of all ages and abilities played, with regulations made up and adjusted as the game played.For instance, you could steal second base; literally, pick it up and run off with it. People were encouraged to improvise in any way which encouraged hilarity. I don't remember anyone ever keeping score.Uncle Atlee was one of the men from the Greatest Generation. He was serving in the Navy on the Pacific island of Tinian, when the 9,000-pound uranium-235 bomb was loaded aboard a modified B-29 bomber called the Enola Gay. After the war, he returned to the family farm in Littlestown, where he sold silos and related farm equipment.Uncle At loved to build things and tinker. One of my earliest childhood memories is of a mowing contraption he built, and was proud to demonstrate at one of the family gatherings.He had taken a large riding mower and welded long poles, like outriggers, on both sides. Single "push" lawnmowers (their handles removed) were welded along the pole, staggered so that some were in front of the pole, some behind it. Uncle At strode along both sides, pulling the starter cords until all the mowers were roaring. He then took a seat on the center riding mower and drove off, cutting an incredibly broad swath through the yard and fields.But here's the thing about Uncle At. He didn't build the "super mower" as something he'd use every day. He built it so that he could debut it at the annual family picnic, for entertainment.It seemed that every time we were there, Uncle At would get out some contraption, such as an antique bicycle, restored and improved with some sort of outlandish alteration. For instance, the handlebars of the antique bicycle were literally covered with bells of all shapes, types and sounds.Uncle At taught Sunday school for more than 50 years.Uncle At died last month; he was 96. Sometimes when you go to a funeral for someone who has died at such an old age, hardly anyone is there. That wasn't the case. Every seat was taken, and there were people there of all ages.Thank you, Uncle At, for my love of rural life, and for your great life.