A Sunday afternoon drive had me gazing intently at the abandoned farmyards that dot the prairie landscape. There are thousands of similar places scattered across this country. Each one holds a place in the history of their communities.
Most of the time I casually glance at these old yards without giving them a second thought. When people drive by the farmyard where I grew up, with only the barn remaining, they probably don’t think much about it either. When I stop and think about these places, I realize that every one of those properties has roots that trace to someone.
At some of the yard sites, shells of houses, granaries or barns remain. The only indication at others that life once abounded there are the rows of trees that were planted for shelter. Perhaps an ageing outhouse listing to one side, an old rhubarb plant, lilacs, caragana bushes or roses are hiding in the long grass.
I think about the lives that were lived there. I wonder about the stories of the people from these seemingly forgotten places.
In my mind I imagine:
- Love stories and babies.
- A wooden rocking chair.
- Smoke wafting from the chimney.
- Laundry drying on the clothesline.
- The glow of a light in the window.
- The smell of bread baking in the wood stove.
- A pie cooling in the breeze by a window.
- Children playing in the yard.
- Cats and dogs roaming about.
- A woodpile visible in the background.
- A farmer getting up in the night to check his livestock.
- A weary homemaker hauling water in from the well.
- Multiple children in each bedroom of the small home, tucked in their beds under the sloped upstairs ceiling.
- Heat from a wood stove providing warmth until the coals burned out early the next morning.
- Home-cooked meals shared around the kitchen table. Stories were told and problems solved.
- Roasted meats and gravy, boiled potatoes, vegetables and fruit.
- The many gardens that flourished.
- Snowstorms, droughts and lightning as it lit up the night sky.
- A farmer working to repair an old piece of machinery, hoping it will last another year.
- Visitors or a salesman knocking on the weathered wooden door.
- Weddings, anniversaries, wakes and reunions that were held there.
Mom, her brother Ernest and her parents at her and Dad’s wedding reception which was held at Mom’s family farm.
I am filled with many questions. Somewhere there are the answers, but I will never know most of them.
- Who lived there?
- Where did they come from?
- When did they arrive?
- How did they end up in that exact spot in the world?
- What were their hopes and dreams, triumphs and sorrows?
- What type of farming operation did they have? Seeing a barn suggests they had livestock, as most farms did back in the day. Granaries meant grain farming. They had to be self-sufficient to survive. The grain harvested provided income and feed for cattle, horses, pigs and chickens.
- What were the circumstances that prompted their decision to move away? Many things could have been contributing factors including finances which could have made it necessary to take a job off the farm, weather, pests in the crops, ageing or illness.
- Where are their ancestors now?
- Do they visit the old place or think about it?
On their last day there, did they feel sad and defeated or excited to be moving on? I would love for just one day to turn back time and stop in at some of those farmyards and talk to the people about their histories.
Some of these yards have come full circle. They started as grass and scrub brush and nature has reclaimed the land. Others have been erased by industry, progress I suppose.
To some extent we are where we grew up. Deep roots help us weather life’s storms, but it is ok to have wings too.
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Thank you
©️Copyright 2020 Norma Galambos
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