Some people tell stories. Others—like the prolific and beloved Jerry Apps—live inside them and invite us in. It was with a sad heart that I learned he passed away on Dec. 23, 2025. During his 91 years, Jerry was a teacher, authored more than 50 books, and was an amazing—but also humble—star of many PBS documentaries about the land and farming in the 1950s. Since I had read many of those books and watched some of his documentaries, the loss felt personal, like losing a trusted teacher and friend.

I had the privilege of interviewing him when he was 87. We discussed his stories, which centered on the family farm where he was born and raised near Wild Rose—a home with no electricity or indoor plumbing. He was the oldest of three children, with twin brothers, Darrel and Donald.

His latest book, Lessons from 90 Years of Living, which I had ordered just days before his death, includes a chapter titled “The Power of Storytelling.” Jerry concluded that chapter with several lessons, including this one: “Stories ground me, give me pleasure, and provide me a sense of purpose in my life. They help make me human.”

Jerry’s humanity was shown through his compassion for others. We shared a publisher, and during a Zoom session, he told a story about a farmer’s wife who approached him after one of his presentations. She credited Jerry with saving her husband’s life. She said her husband had been severely depressed—possibly even suicidal—until he began reading Jerry’s books.

Jerry spoke openly about the high suicide rate among farmers and how, with the loss of the family farm, many feel they have failed. Jerry strove to help them see their worth.

His voice revealed genuine empathy. He said he could relate because, at age twelve, he developed polio. As a farmer’s son, losing the use of his right leg made him feel worthless. “That’s a terrible feeling,” I remember Jerry saying, his voice filled with emotion.

Fortunately, Jerry was able to restore his self-image through his words and storytelling. He also eventually regained the use of his leg.

I suspect the depressed husband found comfort in seeing the value of his farming life—but I also believe Jerry’s books awakened memories of joy and purpose.

Jerry’s young adult novel Wild Oak includes a line that made me think of that farmer. The main character, Billy, says, “Mostly, I guess, I had come to love the land, the smell of freshly turned soil in the spring when the plow’s moldboard created long ribbons of brown from fencerow to fencerow.” If the farmer read that, surely he would remember a similar moment and briefly relive a happier time.

The book also offers lines like this: “Heavy frost covered the dead grass and hung on the dried heads of the timothy, on the wooden fence that enclosed the barnyard, on the cobwebs that had been meticulously woven from the corner of the barn to the beginning of the fence boards.” And just like that, I’m crunching through deep snow toward a snug horse barn on a crisp winter day, smelling sweet molasses grain mingled with the warm scent of horses.

Jerry found great satisfaction in knowing he had helped others and made a difference—one story at a time. If you haven’t read his work, grab a cozy blanket. Treat yourself to the rocking-chair cadence of his words. They are still here, still waiting, inviting us in like a friendly neighbor pausing to chat.

Thank you for sharing your words with us, Jerry. May you rest in peace.