The Farm

The farm has always drawn me in with the power of home. As a young boy, visiting my grandparent’s farm in northeast Nebraska was pure joy. My brother and I could barely contain our enthusiasm during the frequent three-hour car trips to where our mother was raised. Traveling the last 8 miles of rolling gravel hills, anticipation would build. My brother and I frequently made week long summer visits. Our grandparents always welcomed our visits, and they were ever vigilant in keeping us safe from all the danger that existed. They showed great measures of patience as they allowed us to "help".


A map of the entire farm operation with all the buildings is locked in my brain. As we crested the final hill, we could see down below the roof of the old barn standing stoically above the trees. For as long as I can remember and for long as my mother can remember that barn had blocked the cold north wind and provided a sheltered barnyard. The stock tank on the north side of the driveway had been there when I was born and was there when I was an adult. The white farmhouse sat nestled in the grove of trees centered among the farm operation. The old house held memories of many homecomings and holidays. There was nothing unusual or especially unique about this farm place. It was like thousands across the Midwest. The special part was the fact that it belonged to my family.

My memories of the visits to that farm are vivid. The front porch chest freezer to the left of the front door contained Grandma's cookies. They are like no other. There are no imitations. She kept a large supply for grandkids like me. I remember the smell of cookies when the freezer lid was opened. I can still see my grandfather in the early morning sitting over a cup of coffee listening to the AM radio WNAX. “Your big friend.” Farm reports, weather, and news began each work day. I recall keeping warm under piles of blankets in the chilly upstairs bedrooms. The cold floor on bare feet made getting dressed a rapid ordeal. Turning the crank on the cream separator fascinated me as I watched it work on fresh milk. Most separators are used for flower pots these days. Walking down the path to the garden spot with my grandmother was special. To my grandmother this was just everyday life but to me it was entertaining. Looking for potatoes was like digging for gold. Each spade of dirt contained a surprise. Big potato tops never guarantees pay dirt. Driving a tractor for the first time, picking mulberries and choke cherries, sledding down the huge pasture hill, cutting firewood are all pleasant memories of the farm.

The meals with all the extended family there were special. The stories my grandfather and family could tell of the past were spellbinding to me. Their experiences covered decades of life on the farm. My grandfather’s stories of going west to look for work during the Great Depression made history come alive. Banks closed and people made do with what they had.

What I remember the most is the never ending work load present with farm life. It was fun for a kid visiting but to make a living, my grandparents worked. They worked long and hard under trying conditions with no promise of reward. It was and is the travails of farming. In the words of my grandmother, “What choice was there?” Necessity has always been the mother of invention. Persistence and hard work pay off.



Time does its dance and rock solid stable things that I hoped would never change, did. I moved from childhood and soon approach middle age. My grandfather passed away almost 15 years ago. My grandmother has moved to town for health reasons. The beloved acres that are in my childhood memory were sold. I don't get back to visit often. I use the excuse that I'm too busy. Not long ago, I traveled back to Nebraska. I couldn't resist driving the familiar road to the place my grandparents had poured their life into for so many years. From the crest of the last hill the old barn strangely was absent. As I pulled up to the place where the driveway once had been, disorientation greeted me. I was in the right place, but no hint of a farm remained. Steers grazed in a rock strewn pasture. Gone were many of the trees of the grove that had surrounded the farm buildings. No mailbox, no outbuildings no driveway. Even the house was gone. Just pasture and a few lazy half grown Angus steers.

The strange TV program called The Twilight Zone came to mind. In the program, unexplainable bizarre events caused given facts and places to be distorted and changed. This was no TV program and my mind was struggling to cope with what I was seeing. The new land owner had every right to do whatever he wished with the land. It was just hard to comprehend. How could a lifetime of work be erased without a trace?

I am not sure why I went to look at the old farm place or even what I was looking for. Farms are disappearing at an alarming rate across the country. This is not news to anyone connected to agriculture. My grandparents were successful farmers who raised outstanding products with few resources. The most outstanding achievement was raising their family. They provided abundant love, support, and guidance to five children. Those five have extended the love and support to their families. My parents passed this on to me. Anything I have become or hope to be grows directly from my past. Everyday I remember my grandparents and the farm. My children can not see the farm in my memory but it is my hope that I can give them a glimpse of the love and support that made it work.