As twin babies Emmersyn and Sofia grinned and cooed inside the century-old farmhouse, Richard Stanley never seemed to miss a beat.
With barely a word of direction from his daughter, Juliana Stanley Mitchell, Richard smoothly grabbed a baby carrier as Juliana walked into the dining room with her sister in her arms. Richard gently set the baby carrier down, then quickly moved it closer to Juliana when the baby became fussy. Apparently, the twins don’t appreciate Grandpa’s beard and aren’t afraid to let everyone know. Richard and Juliana continued arranging the babies, moving around one another with practiced ease, and before long, both babies were cooing happily once again.
Outside the farmhouse windows, rows of sweet corn stretched toward the summer sun. Purple hull peas climbed their vines. Watermelons were beginning to appear, and somewhere beyond them in the back pasture, cattle grazed across nearly 100 acres.
Watching the family work together, it became clear the vegetables, cattle and land aren’t Richard Stanley’s greatest harvest.
His family is.
At 58, the Wood County farmer and rancher was diagnosed with early-onset dementia two years ago after noticing something wasn’t right.
“I started having some blank time,” he said. “Things that I’d been doing forever weren’t working out just right.”
For a man who had always baled his own hay, worked cattle and solved problems without hesitation, the diagnosis was devastating.
“’I’m done,’” was his first thought.
But he quickly shook off that thought.
Instead of giving up, Richard began doing what farmers have always done when faced with circumstances beyond their control: He focused on what he could change.
His doctors encouraged him to maintain a routine, something farming already demanded.
Every day follows nearly the same pattern. He checks a group of heifers at another property, spends hours tending his garden, checks the cattle at home, then returns to the garden. Even on difficult days, the rhythm remains.
“It keeps me busy,” Richard said. “The kids all help me.”
Some tasks have become too dangerous or confusing. He no longer bales hay. He writes gate codes on note cards taped to his steering wheel. He rarely drives into town unless someone rides with him.
“When I’m not right,” he said, “I don’t get into anything important.”
Instead, he rests, asks for help and waits for a better day.
The changes have required humility, but not surrender.
Richard takes his medications. He drinks plenty of water while working outdoors. He wears sunscreen and bandanas to protect himself from the Texas sun — precautions he admits he never bothered with when he was younger.
When asked if he was simply taking control of the things he could control, Richard didn’t hesitate.
“That’s right,” he said.
That philosophy extends beyond his own health.
Together, Richard, Juliana and her siblings, Vanessa and Paul, have helped expand the family’s small farm store, selling fresh vegetables, eggs, homemade breads, banana pudding, jams and other seasonal products. The store is open Saturdays from 10 a.m. to noon and gives neighbors access to food grown only steps away from where it’s sold.
Juliana’s interest in holistic health and clean eating blends naturally with her father’s lifelong love of growing things.
“It keeps him on his feet,” she said. “It keeps him healthy as much as we can and keeps him in his routine.”
The garden has become Richard’s favorite place.
This year it overflows with his favorite cream peas, plus green beans, sweet corn, watermelons and cantaloupes. He said he doesn’t grow vegetables he doesn’t personally like “because there’s no point” if he’s not going to want to eat them. He also plants flowers simply because, as he put it, “they’re just pretty.”
Even the greenhouse stays busy through winter, protecting herbs, tomatoes, houseplants and avocado trees he recently learned to grow after watching videos online.
Despite dementia, curiosity hasn’t left him.
Neither has hope.
Richard purchased the farm in 1996, adding to a family history rooted in the neighboring land where he grew up. As land prices continue climbing, he knows opportunities to buy property like this are becoming increasingly rare.
Asked what legacy he hopes to leave, his answer wasn’t about buildings or bank accounts.
He hopes his children keep the land.
“I’d hope they’d keep it,” he said. “Young people aren’t going to be able to buy this anymore.”
That hope feels tangible while watching Juliana walk the property with her father.
She talks about tomatoes her family is growing and the squash and zucchini her sister grows for the farm store. Richard points toward the greenhouse. Together they discuss chickens, vegetables, flowers and grandchildren in the same conversation. Farming isn’t just something they do; it’s the language they share.
Later, as Richard stands among shoulder-high corn, he speaks matter-of-factly about the future.
“The future isn’t a given,” he said. “For anybody.”
So he chooses not to spend much time worrying about it.
Instead, he focuses on today’s chores, today’s garden and today’s grandchildren.
“Just enjoy one day at a time,” he said. “Don’t take any of it for granted.”
For a man living with dementia, that may sound like acceptance.
But standing on his farm, surrounded by growing crops and a growing family, it feels more like wisdom.
Richard Stanley may no longer control every chapter of his own story.
But each day, with steady routines, open hands and the people who love him working alongside him, he continues writing the part that matters most: ensuring that when his time in the fields is finished, the harvest will continue.