At the end of October and into November, Midwestern sunlight turns thin. There is less of it, and it stretches to fill the hours in a milky wash that fades everything in sepia and gold. It is on such a day that we visit the farm.
On a lovely hilltop, set back from the road and encircled by a copse of rugged oaks, the farm’s abandoned house stands sentinel over its land. Out back there is a newer, simple dwelling for temporary stays, tucked out of sight so that the old house is focal.
The land slopes away from the sentry into a vale leading to the fields. It is here that the old barn lies fallen on its foundation of stones, nestling into the hill in its final rest. It is replaced by a bright metal building that stores tractors and implements used for hauling and clearing. The business of growing rests in a lease now.
At the turn of the century about one-third of us lived on farms. As the country mechanized, opportunities in the city drew rural people in search of a better life. In 1988, almost a quarter million left the land, leaving the farm population at its lowest level since before the Civil War. Less than 5% of us live on farms today. Smaller plots that supported families have been swallowed up or left fallow.
The land is marked by these ghostly sentinels. The wind in the trees whispers stories. Hopes and dreams can almost be heard as we step into the pantry under the stairway, from the doorway to the front room, peering into what was the kitchen. The tattered edifice presents itself as proudly as it can for our scrutiny, knowing all the while it is beaten.
I am reminded of a visit with other ghosts as I walk around this shell. My father was born in such a house. When we returned to it years ago, it had been long abandoned, and I felt a presence. A faded scrap of wallpaper caught my eye as we climbed the stairs to the eaves. This was what they saw by candlelight away to bed. This was what they touched with fingertips grimy from yesterday’s field on the way down to breakfast in the dark. I knew them by what they had seen and felt.
On this day there is a shard of saucer with a floral design, a rusty tool grip, the shred of a curtain hanging in a gaping window. This held someone’s coffee, made a sturdy repair, framed a view of trees and fields. I imagine the sounds of life here: A dog’s bark from far away. The stomping of snow from boots in the back room. The hissing of cold woolens drying on the stove. Fragments of memory are revealed in a glance.
We now stand outside again gazing into the beyond. The house is behind us, mute and eloquent, dignified in its diminishment. The watery light sifts through the oaken branches in a scene worthy of Vermeer. An eddy of wind causes the leaves to dance. There is peace in this place, guarded by a sentinel from the past.
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Peter and Betsy Wuebker are location-independent professionals who share what they know about travel, simplicity and integrating work with life. 
As I said on Twitter, this is really good Betsy.
A country drive off the beaten path where I live reveals all sorts of farms just like this. Or entire towns that do not exist anymore. Even a ski hill.
Forgotten dreams, perhaps to be rediscovered as we (hopefully) get back in touch with how to look after ourselves and our communities again.
Brett Legree´s last blog post..viking fridays – tears in the rain.
As one of your companions that day, I felt the quiet peace of God there also. It’s a place I’d like to return to.
Hi Betsy. How I enjoyed this! The melancholy description. The memories. It struck me… the part where you mentioned how settlers left their farms in search of a better life. Perhaps it wasn’t a better life after all! I miss our farm more than I can say.
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You described it so well, I felt as if I was there too. It’s not just your photos that I like. You write really well.
Wow! Thank you for writing such a poignant piece about the farm. Although I visit there often, I will think of it differently now, reading about it through your eyes. I was happy to go there with you and Mary Hoffman. I will always remember that fun day.
Hi Brett – Thank you. Being there made me want to do a restoration project of some kind, definitely off the beaten path.
Hi Mary – I would like to return there, too. It was so beautiful and peaceful.
Hi Davina – Thank you. I’ve always wanted to live on a farm, and ironically, my father couldn’t wait to get out to the big city.
Hi Vered – Thanks. Sometimes feelings are so vivid that they write themselves.
Hi Judy – What a lovely day it was. There is so much soul in that land. I would love to go there again. Thank you!
Betsy, I like this very much. It reminds me of my childhood, growing up on a very small farm, but even more – visiting my grandparents and aunts and uncles – many which were farmers. And there were the old farm houses, old barns, old sheds. Always something to explore. Now, I go back “home” and many of these family farms have went away – and I miss that. Even where I’m at currently – on the far outskirts of the “big city” – we have farms around us – and they are going away also – in the name of urban sprawl. Just last year a farm across from our grocery store was sold to make way for a new shopping complex – it was one of the things that made our area feel special – our “cow corner” by the grocery store. Gone.
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Hi Lance – it’s hard to see them go, isn’t it? It’s just as hard to say no to a developer who comes knocking with wads of cash, though. It’s easy for me to romanticize what, for my father and others, must have been an unimaginably hard life. Thanks for your comment.
Lovely post and blog
. Thing that is amazing is that these sentinels were once a part of someone’s thriving life.
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My grandfather was a farmer. Thanks for such a beautiful post. It brough some great memories back
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Hi Pink – Yes, I think there must be some kind of other dimension that memorializes life within a place. Thanks for coming by.
Hi Beth – So many of us are descended from farmers, aren’t we? I’m glad this post provoked your memories.
Hi Betsy – This is a beautifully written piece that brings back lots of wonderful memories of my childhood. I loved the family farm. Two years ago I took a trip back to Michigan and got to spend time on the farm. As I walked around the property the memories came rushing back and for a moment or two, I felt like I had never left. Fortunately the house has been lived in (by relatives) so it’s character remains. I was also happy to see the old barn was still standing.
Thanks for letting me take another walk down memory lane.
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Hi Barbara – I’m amazed and glad about how affecting this entry has been. So many of us have come out of this way of life in one way or another. How great that you were able to return, and that the farm is still in your family. My brother has done a wonderful job keeping the soul of our dad’s farm alive, but others live in the house now. They’ve done a great job renovating it, but it doesn’t look anything like it did. Thank you.
Betsy, Thanks for writing so beautifully about “the sentinal”. It’s nice to see that perspective. When I first bought the farm 11 years ago, I spent hours reading through the abstract to try to figure out who all the past owners were and I imagined the families that grew up there. The original government patent was in 1866 to Ole Tortenson and his wife Julia. From there the abstract is filled with Scandanavian names. I have a book called “Death of the Dream” that’s all about Classic Minnesota Farmhouses and each farm has a unique history. I’m glad you enjoyed your visit and I hope you will return often. John B.
Hi John – I’m so glad you liked what I wrote. You are now the caretaker of this beautiful piece of land. I would love to see the abstract sometime. Pete and I watched the movie “Death of the Dream” and really liked it, so I am looking forward to seeing the book sometime. Thanks for inviting me to return, you may regret it!
Betsy, what a lovely story. I felt as if I were there with you, touching the wallpaper, seeing the saucer shard. And seeing the family coming down for breakfast in the darkest part of morning. There are many abandoned farms here where we live and when looking at them they always sadden me somewhat, but seeing them “dignified in their diminishment” gives me hope. And a smile.
Thank you for sharing your writings. They are much appreciated.
Hi Stephanie – Thank you so much. There is so much pride and dignity remaining in these places. They remind me of old soldiers at parade rest. And of course, the light is so melancholy at this time of year, too.