Selling The Farm

by Valerie Hanson

Everyone knew the time was coming. Years of moldy grain dust and pesticides finally caught up with Dad; emphazima. A slow retirement - first the sheep, then the cattle, later the land rented out. Finally it was not possible to sit on the tractor to push snow out of the yard so they could get to town.

The move to town was also gradual, painless, an adventure. A leisurely life of television, reading, doing what you want rather than worrying about hail, drought, roads under water. And the land continued to produce for the renters.

But that was having your cake and eating it. Finally, it became clear that my brother and I would not have the means to buy the land and continue to rent the farm. It had to be sold.

Even the moving and cleaning-out process was an adventure. Two generations of collectors (read pack-rats) made for an amazing glimse into the past. As we cleaned sad irons and old tools for the auction, we played "What is it?" with oddly curled tools and implements with parts strewn around the back of the shop.

But packing the boxes allowed enough quiet time to hear the house finch and the goldfinch singing. Waking up to the robin's song and crickets lulling me to sleep was as comforting as the old quilt on the bed. After years of cats that were excellent mousers, the gopher in the yard seemed an interloper - I still wasn't ready to relinquish the farm to the wildlife.

I'll miss the finch's songs, sitting on the porch in early evening and watching the oriole dart across the yard. While robins sing in the city, noise's competition for the same air space seems to blunt their song.

It's not the physical aspects of the farm but the connection with the land that I will most miss. My search for a quiet place to watch and listen to the birds begins now.