Lights Are Still On In Our Memories

Across the Fence #326

“The lights may have gone out in the old farm house where you lived, but not in your memories.” That sentiment came from a reader in Minnesota, after reading my story several weeks ago about how the lights have gone out in so many houses and barns around the countryside.

I think all writers sometimes wonder if anyone reads their columns. My friend, David Giffey, even made that statement in a recent column. We know some people are reading them when we hear from people that don’t agree with or like something we say, but we seldom hear from those who like what we write. The lights out story seems to have struck an emotional chord with many people. I’ve received many e-mails and even telephone calls. I appreciate hearing from all of you.

Jim in Cassville, expressed what many of you felt, “I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night, stopping to carry an armload of wood while on our way in.”

A man who grew up on an Iowa farm and now lives in Florida wrote, “Some stories hit me hard with an emotional impact, and this is one of them. What particularly gripped me was the line about leaving the barn after the night milking and walking toward the light in the kitchen window where supper was being prepared and looking up at the bright stars on a cold, cloudless night. Your writing can be so poetic that it just grabs the reader.”

Another reader in Texas said, “This week’s writing brought a lump in my throat! It is beautiful, indeed! We are lucky to have had a farm background for our journey on Spaceship Earth!”

From the Madison area, “You hit a home run — great piece of writing.” Krissy in Colorado wrote, “What a special place the farm has in my heart... your mom’s warm heart made it ‘home.’ Oh what I would give to have just a few moments back there, on a balmy summer evening, sitting around the table with all of us together again... your writing is the next best thing!”

From Louann in Illinois, “When I drive in the pre-dawn or evening hours, I’m always comforted by the lit windows on barns. Sometimes, it’s the windows of a horse farm where someone is doing morning chores; however, more often, the barns are filled with cows waiting their turn, cats meandering around the aisle, and the CHUH-chuh-CHUH-chuh sound of the milking machines drowning out the radio’s morning news. I know this without having to set foot on the premises. It makes me feel as if all’s right in the world.”

A man from Highland found my number and called one night to talk about the story. We had a wonderful visit.

This story reinforces what I’ve always felt–our rural, farm background roots run very deep. Many people left the farm after graduating from high school to pursue fields other than farm fields, but it’s so true, you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy. That goes for girls too. The lights may have gone out in the buildings many of us once lived and worked in, but they still shine brightly in our memories.

I’m glad that our kids have a connection to the land and farm also. They always enjoyed their visits with “Grandma and Grandpa Farm,” as they called them when they were young. They got to help in the barn with feeding the cows, played with the kittens in the haymow, climbed in the maple trees, helped drive the John Deere tractor, and walked with us while we explored the back forty and pond. Amy even got to help grandma make cherry pies in the old farm kitchen. When we built our house on a corner of the back forty, Erik remembered riding on the tractor with grandpa in that field. They have many good memories from those visits to the farm when they were young. I think those visits helped instill in them a love and appreciation of nature and the outdoors.

I think Ben Logan said it best in The Land Remembers. “Once you have lived on the land, been a partner with its moods, secrets, and seasons, you cannot leave. The living land remembers, touching you in unguarded moments, saying, ‘I am here. You are a part of me.’ When this happens to me, I go home again, in mind or in person…”

I can certainly relate to those words. I know many of you can too. The land is a part of us and if we can’t go back there in person, we can still go back there in our mind.

Many of the buildings where I spent time are gone. The big maple trees that we climbed in are gone. The shanty where we had our Prairie Ghost meetings is gone. But in our mind, you and I can still visit all the places we once frequented. We have the best of both worlds — the past and the present.