It pleases me no end to drive through the rural countryside and see all the newish modern homes that have been built by farm and ranch families during the last 30 years.
But, on the flip side of that feeling is the one of sadness and nostalgia that I get every time I drive by a sagging, dilapidated, decrepit old long-abandoned farm home slowly rotting and mouldering, board by board, nail by nail, back into the good Earth. These were homes built in the early to mid-1900s
I never drive by those crumbling homes, along with their equally crumbling barns and sheds, and root cellars without thinking, “I wonder what those crumbling buildings could tell me about their history if they could talk?”
I bet they’d tell me about their current residents — for sure termites, an assortment of insects, rats and mice, likely raccoons, possums and skunks, and possibly barn or screech owls, perhaps bats, too, with the occasional coyote or fox visitor.
Every abandoned farm home has a human history compiled by the succession of folks who lived there. For sure there wuz elation when the construction wuz done and the first residents moved in. There were the mixed feelings of families moving out and new families moving in. There had to be sadness when the last family moved out and abandoned the house to the elements.
Since the purpose of a home is to raise a family in it, certainly an old farm home could tell me about first kisses in the front porch swing, marriage engagements, passionate marriage consummations, children spawned.
Most likely some old homes could tell me about children born within. Baths in a cold galvanized tub. Sick children. There had to be “Ouch!” moments from mother using a needle to extract a splinter from hand or toe or pour mercurochrome on a cut or scrape. School homework done on the kitchen table. There had to be proud moments of prom nights and graduations, too.
The old homes could tell me about the rigors, and satisfactions, of everyday household goings-on. It could tell me about the hundreds of pints and quarts of garden-grown veggies and orchard-grown fruits that were picked, peeled, canned or frozen? How many clothes did Mom and daughters stitch on a treadle sewing machine using feed sack printed cloth? How many chickens were fried for Sunday dinners with the pastor, or for holidays with the extended family?
That crumbling home was host to birthday parties. Neighbors gathered in the winter to eat chili, oyster soup, or potato soup. They froze homemade ice cream and ate it for dessert during a card-playing intermission. I’d bet many old homes had an upright piano along some wall and someone could pound out songs for a sing-around. When the party ended and guests departed, someone stoked and banked coals in the Ben Franklin wood or coal-burning stove.
I doubt any crumbling rural home didn’t experience warming numerous newborn calves, piglets, or lambs in the kitchen. And what rural child growing up in the home’s heyday didn’t try to raise some young wildlife critter like a pet raccoon, rabbit, or baby bird that had fallen from its nest? And, regular pets? I’m betting there were plenty of stories to tell about pet dogs and cats,.
And, most likely during its duration as a home, the crumbling house could tell me about the seedier side of human life, too — loud arguments, personal spats, drunkenness, perhaps even spousal and child abuse of some sort.
For sure, such old crumbling houses could tell me about end-of-life experiences, too. Injuries to family members. Convalescing from diseases. Invalids on their dying beds. Sad wakes for departed family members. Neighbors bringing foodstuffs after funerals.
And, finally, as I drive the rural countryside I see former farmsteads where the only current evidence of the former rural home are the daffodils growing out-of-place in the road ditch, the isolated lilac bushes that persists long after the home is gone, the sad humps of the remnants of storm and root cellars, perhaps an old hand-pump for a water well still sticks out like a sore thumb. And there are the aging windbreaks planted decades ago with a few trees that refuse to die.
For sure, the abandoned rural homes remind me that time marches on, but memories live on and on.
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My old Missouri friend, Canby Handy, tells me about a newly-made friend who grew up or a farm or ranch around Dexter, Kan., down close to the Oklahoma border. They met each other at the TWA Airline Museum near the old Kansas City downtown airport.
Funny thing, during their discussion, my name somehow arose and Canby mentioned that he and I went to school together. That’s when his new friend said, “I’ve been reading Milo’s column for years. I feel like I know him.”
Well, now I kind of feel like I know Canby’s new friend, too. “Thanks” for your loyal readership.
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Speaking of loyal readers, I know I’ve still got a lot of them who read my column in FARM TALK. Many of them started reading after getting a copy of the paper at the Four State Farm Show. Since the show is celebrating it’s 50th anniversary this week, here’s hoping that my column gathers some new readers after the show.
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Words of wisdom for the week: “The ability to speak several languages is an asset, but the ability to keep your mouth shut in any language is priceless.” Have a good ‘un.
