The moving of farms was actually pretty little by farm-moving standards. But it was big to us. It was huge to me. Life-changing. We moved 2 miles. We moved from 68 acres to 200+ acres. The responsibilities turned from primarily mine to not primarily mine. The decision-making also turned from primarily mine to not primarily mine. I knew this would be both good and bad and in-between. And it has been.
Last November, around Thanksgiving, my oldest brother's big Mennonite family came up from Virginia, and my youngest brother and his wife came from Iowa. We sat around the table and discussed the future of the farm, and the future of my middle brother. In this conversation were my mother, my oldest and youngest brother, me and all of our spouses. The family farm was falling apart, and I had been wanting out of it increasingly and with more panic as time went by. Boards were falling off the barn. Outbuildings needed painted. Siding and eves needed fixed on the house. My husband had been running back and forth for 6 years between two farms trying to patch things together. I had reached a point of telling my mother, "Sell it, I'm moving."
Where to, some might wonder? Why, to the old, falling apart brick house over at my husband's family's farm. The problem is, 2 people, one of them working full-time in a high-stress job, cannot fix up 2 dilapidated farms.
Embedded in my memory were comments my oldest brother had made to me years before. He was the farmer in the family. My father had wanted him to have the farm, but he and my father could never see eye-to-eye. My father was a control freak. There was always some catch; something held over your head for everything you were given. My oldest and youngest brothers had long moved on, leaving all the "catches" behind, and taking control of their own lives. But Larry had always WANTED the farm. He had wanted it without conditions. My father could never, in all of their dickering, let go of his conditions. My father however, at this notable Thanksgiving dinner, had been gone for nearly 2 years. My mother was not interested in the farm management at all, whatsoever. My youngest brother was not interested in receiving any financial benefit from selling it. It was okay with my oldest brother if my middle brother stayed in his trailer there so long as there was no trouble. I was banking on all of this.
It was a good hunch. My oldest brother, his wife and 7 children, ages 14 up, the oldest son already running his own carpentry business, went home to mull on it. Within the next 2-3 months, all the plans were made. I had begun cleaning out the attic before I had their word. I "knew it in my bones," that this move was going to happen.
No amount of preparation is enough to move out of a family farm. My oldest brother is a hoarder in some regard, but he is also a purger. As his sister, I knew just what kind of purger he was. I knew that whatever I didn't clean out, I'd never see again, most likely, as it would be lost, burned or dumped. It took a few bottles of wine, but I went through every single box that had been thrown into the attic in the midst of every "clean this place up!" frenzy or family accounting argument since 1976 - junk with old love letters, dusted up trumpet music, long lost Muskojuans from the 1950's, class picture books from every school throughout Ohio my parents had ever taught in, paired in boxes with broken glasses, long outdated camera flashes and mouse droppings. I cried, I laughed, I read, I groaned, and I drunkenly commented as I sorted things into boxes for my mother, myself and each of my siblings. My husband took out box after box of discarded papers and trash to be burned. We did not need to keep old inservices, curriculum evaluations and lessons plan from every school they had taught in. Despite everyone saying they had no interest in what was in the attic, they each went through their boxes like it was the best kind of candy store. I even found things to give some of my neighbors from their ancestors.
The move was in March. My deep freezer and my fleeces are still in their garage. It is mid August. We moved my sheep over last week.
There are more than 200 acres here. There is a herd of Hereford beef cows, and there are 3 horses. Now there are 11 sheep. I have a garden again. It is very weedy and didn't grow much, but it is hopeful.
I have taught my 7 nieces and nephews how to make cheese, how to spin, how to shear sheep, and today I will be teaching them how to skirt and pack fleeces for the woolgrowers coop. I'm kind of new to that myself. They dress plain, and will most likely be able to profit more from such things by the mere appearance of looking like "Amish." They have made a gardening paradise out of the garden I dumped manure on for years. They've fixed the barn. My brother, a finishing carpenter, is building a wood shop that is as big as his house. I want to be jealous of all of it, but it is a little difficult to be in my relief.
It was a good move.
No comments:
Post a Comment