Tom Lesovsky, Cuba, Kansas

In the rolling prairies of Kansas, where the land stretches out like a vast ocean under an endless sky, lies the small town of Cuba. It's a place easily overlooked by those speeding along the highways, but to the souls who dwell there, it's a world rich with quiet beauty and enduring strength. The winds that sweep over the wheat fields carry whispers of generations, and among these whispers walks a man named Tom Lesovsky.

Tom is a farmer, as his father was, and his father before him—a lineage rooted deep in the soil of this 950-acre farm that’s stood for more than 100 years that yields both sustenance and stories. His hands are worn and strong, etched with the lines of countless seasons spent coaxing life from the reluctant earth. The land knows him, and he knows the land, but it is the town that holds his heart just as firmly.

Cuba is not a place of grand monuments or bustling streets; it's a tapestry woven from the threads of its people, each one adding color and texture. Tom moves among them not as a leader crowned by acclaim but as a neighbor, ever ready to lend his hand where it's needed. His wife, Peg, walks beside him—a steadfast companion of 50 years who holds the keys to the town's treasures on a ring heavy with responsibility.

Cuba is not a place of grand monuments or bustling
streets; it's a tapestry woven from the threads of its
people, each one adding color and texture.

When the Sunday morning sun casts its golden light upon the steeple of the Presbyterian church, the congregation gathers, faces lined with the week's labors and hopes. There are days when the preacher, delayed by fate or distance, does not appear. On those days, a quiet stir runs through the pews until Tom rises, his shoes echoing softly on the wooden floor. He stands before them, not with the polished air of a practiced orator but with the sincerity of a man who believes in the power of togetherness.

"There's no way we're not having church service today," he says, his voice firm yet gentle. The congregation opens their Bibles, and together they find solace in words that have guided them through both plenty and want. Tom doesn't seek to preach; he seeks to unite, to fill the room with the warmth of shared faith and community.

The Rock-a-Thon is another thread in the fabric of Cuba—a tradition that has pulsed with life since 1976. It began as a simple idea, a way to bring folks together and raise funds for the town's needs. Over the years, it grew into a seven-day celebration of music, food, and the ceaseless motion of rocking chairs that symbolize endurance. Tom and Peg are at the heart of it, their efforts unseen by many but felt by all.

But then came the year when the world seemed to hold its breath. The pandemic swept across the land like a silent storm, and the Rock-a-Thon faced cancellation for the first time. In the quiet of their home, Tom's eyes glistened, then spilled over into a tear or two—a rare glimpse into the depths of his feelings. It wasn't just an event being lost; it was a piece of the town's soul.

"It wasn't just an event," he whispered, his voice catching. "It was a part of who we are."

Yet even in the face of such loss, Tom did not falter. He and Peg turned their energies to salvaging what they could, transforming the abundance of food already purchased for fried chicken night or chicken fried steak night into curbside meals. People drove up in cars and trucks, and Tom handed them their $10 dinners; more than a few handed him a fifty and a “keep the change” smile, he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Nothing would be wasted. It was a small victory in a time of so much uncertainty.

"So folks mentioned my name first, eh?
Well, that's only because I'm the loudest of the bunch."

But if you were to ask Tom about his role, he would shift uncomfortably, a modest smile tugging at his lips. Tom, ever modest beneath the brim of his weathered hat, is quick to deflect any notion of singular praise. "I'm just one of many," he'd say, his gaze sweeping over the familiar streets and faces of Cuba. "So folks mentioned my name first, eh? Well, that's only because I'm the loudest of the bunch." A soft chuckle would escape him before he continued. "Truth is, there are countless others here who roll up their sleeves just the same. People like Clegg, Lynette, and so many more—they all have hearts as big as this prairie. This town isn't held together by one person; it's the collective spirit of everyone pitching in that keeps us going." In his eyes shines the reflection of a community bound not by individual deeds but by the shared resolve of its people.

Peg nods in agreement, her own contributions no less vital. She organizes entertainment, manages the crafts and bake sales, and quietly ensures that the town's heritage is preserved. Together, they have helped restore the old blacksmith shop, breathing life back into a piece of history that might have crumbled into dust. They tend to the community hall, a place that hosts weddings and funerals alike—a sanctuary for the milestones of life.

Their days are full, their own farm demanding attention with its fields of wheat, corn, and beans. Yet they find time, or perhaps they make it, understanding that the measure of a life is not in hours hoarded but in moments shared. There are evenings when exhaustion settles like a weight, but it's a burden they carry gladly.

"Do you ever get tired?" I asked Tom.

He smiled, a hint of weariness in his eyes but a spark of determination as well. "Oh, every day," he admitted. "But there's work to be done."

In the quiet moments, when the stars spread like a blanket over the Kansas sky, Tom allows himself a rare pause. He thinks of the town and its people—the laughter of children at the Harvest Festival, the solemn hymns sung in unison, the collective sigh of relief when a project comes to fruition. He feels a swell of pride, not in himself, but in the community that thrives through shared effort.

The winds continue to blow over Cuba, carrying with them the scent of earth and the echoes of voices raised together. Tom and Peg move through their days with a grace born of purpose, their lives a testament to the power of unity and the quiet heroism of ordinary people.

Cuba may not appear on most maps, and its stories may go untold by the wider world, but within its boundaries lies a truth as profound as any great tale. It's a place where hearts beat in rhythm, where hands reach out without being asked, and where the measure of a person is found in what they give.

As dawn breaks over the fields, painting the sky with hues of gold, Tom rises to greet another day. There's always another task, another neighbor to help, another piece of the town's legacy to tend. And as he steps out onto the land that has been his family's for generations, he knows deep in his soul that he is but one thread in the tapestry—strong, yes, but made stronger by the threads that surround him.

In the end, it's not the individual strands that hold the fabric together, but the way they are woven, tight and unyielding, each supporting the others. And so, the story of Tom and Peg Lesovsky is not just theirs alone, but the story of Cuba itself—a story of enduring spirit, shared burdens, and the quiet, relentless pursuit of keeping the heart of a small town beating strong.