The Home Farm
He leans against the truck’s open windowsill,
Squints through the stir of dust we’ve caused.
His eye roves across the fields, it glints
With unspoken memories. A pause.
Then he says, “I picked rock in that field
When I was nine or so. My dad would pay
Us one buck per rock. I could barely wield
The shovel he gave to me, but he let me play
The radio real loud.” Another pause. He
runs some fingers through the salty hair,
Thin, these days, of course, but we’re
Both much older than really seems fair.
“I much preferred to milk with Joe and smell
The cow manure, and wash the tits and mark
The sick cows and watch the lines begin to swell
With all that white goodness as the dark
Began to rise or fall outside and the tank
Began to fill. We’d walk up and down the pit
Make sure the vacuum secured, pat their flanks,
Tell each other jokes, try not to get hit,
And ones with green tape tied round the ankle
We’d hook up to a surge bucket to keep the bad
Milk separate and sometimes we’d rankle
Poor dad enough he’d let us give a tad
To the cats who’d wander in the parlor barn.
Heck, we had some sixty head at our peak,
All of them raised on grass, about the best darn
grass anywhere in the county. Per week,
I’d say we got over three thousand gallons
At our best. And Joe and me bought Dad out,
Took the home farm, and later bought Allen’s,
And when Joe got hitched, I just about
Worked myself to death to keep things going,
But it was worth it cause I loved the touch
Of grass or musky breath, or the blowing
Of the evening breeze. It was rough
Sometimes, but I would never have sold
To that big corporation if I’d not got
In so much debt. I guess I was too bold.
But you’ve got to get big or get out.”
He shakes his head just once and I nod mine.
We let the silence settle back down again.
I drop him on his street and try to find
The right words. We exchange a silence. Then,
I start the engine in a settling dusk,
And drive back the way I came,
Back past the sheds covered in rust,
Past the house with darkened windows no one will claim.
It's like that with many things today. It seems memories are more precious as the years go by faster and faster. I feel sad and sorry that generations will not know the joy and satisfaction of working the land and all the wonderful memories it brings. I believe we are meant to live simply but it is almost impossible in this day. I look to Jesus for my inspiration and comfort. He does not change like every thing else in this world. Thank you so much for using the talent God gave you. Rosie
It's very troubling that all these big corporations, many of them connected to Bill Gates and the Chinese Communist Party, are buying up farmland. It really cuts at the heart of the country in both material and spiritual ways.