They’re selling my grandparents’ farm today. When my dad’s estate finally got settled, a relative from out of state wound up with the land my great grandfather, my grandfather, my dad and my brother had farmed for years. At one time or another, I have walked, ridden, or driven tractors over every bit of that land. Unlike the farm on which I grew up, this land is mostly flat, requiring few waterways.
Owning this farm was a dream come true for my Carlson Swedish immigrant great grandparents, both of whom began their lives in America as hired help, then as tenant farmers, and finally as land owners. In Sweden, it was generally the rich who owned land, leaving poorer people to work grueling hours under harsh conditions. Little wonder then, that land ownership in America became a sign that the family had achieved something wonderful, that they had truly made it.
I can remember the farmstead when it still had its full complement of buildings with a large cattle shed, a horse barn, a dairy barn, a hog shed, a chicken house, a corn crib, and a tool shed, as well as the house, the cob house, the coal house, and the summer kitchen. To the west of the house, there used to be a one-acre orchard, and my grandmother kept a large garden as well as many flower beds. Over the years, many of the buildings have been removed to reduce onerous taxes imposed by city residents who want those in the country to pay for everything. I also remember when the lanes to the various fields were bordered by hedge rows full of Osage orange, a tree so tough that fence posts made from the wood resisted attempts to nail staples into them when we were constructing fences.
Am I sad that the land is being sold out of the family? Not really, and here’s why. I firmly believe that love never dies and that land remembers those who have loved it and who have cared for it passionately. I have decided that there are people who truly love land wherever they are, and the land senses that and returns that love. On the other hand, there are those for whom land is merely a commodity; they are tone-deaf to the songs of the land.
Today I am praying that someone who loves the land will buy it and will care for it with the same degree of affection and passion as those who have gone before. For me, I have my memories and I can salute the land without owning it. And once more I remind myself that love never dies.
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