‘The shepherd and his sheep’: At 92, Art Huser gains purpose and joy from life on his Indianapolis farm
Students from St. Roch School in Indianapolis surround 92-year-old Art Huser and one of the sheep that he raises and shepherds at his 10-acre home on the south side of the city. St. Roch teacher Dick Gallamore refers to Huser as “a modern-day St. Francis of Assisi.” (Submitted photo)
By John Shaughnessy
If one story can define a person’s life, then here is the story that captures the essence of Art Huser, a 92-year-old Catholic from Indianapolis who raises and shepherds sheep on his 10 acres of land.
As a blizzard kept dumping snow on central Indiana a few years ago, fear and concern spread among Art’s relatives when he didn’t answer their phone calls that night.
So Chris and Cathy Huser, younger relatives of Art, left their Beech Grove home and slowly steered their truck along the treacherous streets until they reached Art’s white farmhouse near Calvary Cemetery on the south side of Indianapolis.
As the wind howled and the snow stung their faces, Chris and Cathy knocked on the door. No answer. Then Chris opened the door with his key. They called for Art and searched through the house, but he wasn’t there.
“Do you think he’s out in the barn?” Cathy asked Chris, with a combination of fear and hope in her voice.
They trudged through the drifting snow, braced themselves against the wind and opened two gates before they reached the small, white barn. With the same mixture of hope and fear, they opened the door to the barn and found Art in a scene they will never forget.
“It’s snowing to beat the band, it’s 10 o’clock at night, and he’s out in the barn bottle-feeding his lambs,” Chris recalls. “He does whatever it takes for his lambs. They follow him like it says in the Bible—the shepherd and his sheep.”
No wings, but plenty of heart
As Chris tells that story, he’s visiting Art—just as he does every day—on an afternoon in late May. Across the street at the cemetery, some flags have already been placed near the monuments and markers of veterans who served in the military of the United States. Art is a veteran, too, having served as a machinist who worked on aircraft that flew on missions in the Pacific Theater during World War II.
For most of the past 25 years, Art walked two to three miles every day through Calvary Cemetery—until he broke an ankle a few years ago.
“I have some relatives in the cemetery,” he says as he stands in his gravel-stone driveway with his faded tan Fox’s Feed baseball cap covering his white hair and shading his light blue eyes. “When I walked over there, I prayed for all those good sinners.”
He pauses. Then his eyes begin to sparkle as he adds, “Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not telling you I got wings.”
He does have a sense of humor and a story to tell. The humor surfaces again when he mentions why he has never married: “I never had anybody ask me to get married. Besides, I can barely live with myself. I can’t live with anyone else.”
As for his story, it began when he was born in Enochsburg in 1918. After his parents died at a young age, he moved to Indianapolis to live with his second cousin, Rose, and her husband, Bill Haeberle. They shared the same house where Art still lives. Art worked as a machinist for 40 years before retiring in 1981. He also cared for Rose during the last years of her life after Bill died.
At 92, Art still drives, cuts the grass and does the yard work. He also feeds the sheep twice a day, rides his tractors and helps with baling the hay on his property. And every day, just as he has done for as long as he can remember, he enjoys his late-afternoon tradition of savoring a screwdriver—a cocktail made of orange juice and vodka.
He also gets up every morning at 5:30 and makes it to the 7:15 Mass nearly every weekday morning at nearby St. Roch Church.
“I was born and raised a Catholic, and I think I should keep up my religion,” he says. “I go to church, too, to show my respect for Father [James] Wilmoth. He’s our wonderful pastor. I’m sure he prays for my sheep because he asks about them.”
‘He’s like a modern day St. Francis’
Yes, the sheep. They’re at the heart of any story about Art. They also give him the purpose, the energy and the joy in his life.
“There’s been sheep here since 1945,” he says as he opens the first gate that leads to the barn. “Rose took care of them first. After I retired in ’81, I took care of them. I’ve had a pretty good retirement so far. I tell you, those sheep have kept me healthy. There are some days when I don’t want to get up, but I do because I have to take care of my sheep. I feel good after I take care of my sheep.”
When he reaches the barn, he climbs over the top of the pen and picks up one of his nine lambs. He also has two rams and 10 ewes.
Earlier in May, Art and his sheep entertained the boys and girls from Dick Gallamore’s fourth-grade class at St. Roch School. During the visit, Art gave the children three loaves of bread to feed to the two rams.
“They loved that,” recalls Gallamore, who has been making annual class field trips to Art’s place for the past six years. “To me, he’s like a modern-day St. Francis of Assisi. He just loves animals, and he talks to them. And they understand him.
“The kids can’t wait to get to his place. They almost run down there. And he loves the kids like he loves his sheep.”
Art’s weathered face breaks into a grin when he’s asked about the visits by the children.
“It makes me feel good to think those kids think enough of me to see my sheep,” he says. “They held the lambs and fed bread to my rams. They’re a real nice bunch of kids. They all sent notes to me. They drew nice pictures of little sheep and my barn.”
The smile on his face and the glow in his eyes linger as he walks from the barn. His look indicates what he feels in his heart, what he says aloud: It’s another good day in a life that’s been blessed in many ways.
“I’ve had a good life,” he says. “From here on in, I don’t know where I may go. But I don’t worry about that. The way I feel now, I’m going to hit 100.” †
