Five generations had the opportunity to call the family farm a home base.  My grandfather rented the farm. My dad purchased it, spending most of his 85 years on the farm. He lies at rest in a small cemetery near the farm. From his gravesite you can see the barn. My siblings and I were raised on the farm. My brother has been on the farm since high school graduation and raised his family there. His grandkids are loving helpers when they are on the farm. The grandkids have been part of the showing of dairy cattle spanning 50 continuous years at the local county fair.

I know life changes and we will always have the memories. But at least for today the memories are bittersweet. If I was honest, I would say I did not enjoy growing up on the farm. The work was darn hard and never ending. We lived on a ridge and I felt like there was not a flat spot on the whole farm. I envied the kids in town who were able to spend their summers going to the library, playing with neighborhood friends, and going to the pool. Somehow attempting to swim in the cow tank was not a replacement for going to the town pool…and dad was not happy when we used the cow tank as the farm pool. If we wanted to get to the monthly 4-H meeting on time, we needed to get the farm work done first. My dad was notoriously late. He wore a wristwatch, his skin tanned to a dark brown around the outline of the watch. However, he seemed to mark time by when things got done. No matter what the season there was a continuous number of chores to be done:  milking, cleaning the barn, picking up rock from the field, planting, harvesting, along with household chores and two gardens.

As we grow older, perhaps we can understand better that the years reveal what the days do not. Farming is a way of life. Those on farms have fed countless people.

As another red barn family farm ceases milking cows—this time the family farm where I grew up—I will use farewell and not good bye, because there is no good in the bye.

Learn strategies to cope with the loss of a farm here.