1984, Move to the Farm

by Lisa Marie Middendorf

I do not recall a life without labor.   My arms, my legs have grown strong to bear the weight of this work, yet my breath is weightless, finding its own natural rhythm within my busy footsteps.   I no longer think of the things I am missing, for now I know I am blessed to lack.  

Summer is pulling its curtain down upon our stage of harvest; it marks a full season of calling this land our own.   It seems lifetimes ago that my husband and I packed what we called necessity from our room in my parents' home in town into our '79 Dodge pickup.   What didn't fit we left on the curb, telling ourselves it would become not only unwanted but unneeded, as well.   Our two small children, strong beautiful girls, rallied about this change with questions and curiosity, (Can Sheba come?   Can we ride our bikes there?   How will our friends find us?) until their pleading persistent questions were granted a visit before the final move.

The Saturday afternoon outing gave the girls' questions a life of their own, taking on new, more focused shapes.   They asked of the cows that would be delivered to the barn two days after we moved in:   Do they bite?   Where do they sleep?   What will they eat?   Do they have dessert?   I can share my dinner with them.   They asked of the haymow that occupied the story above the barn: Can we swing on the ropes?   Why is the hay square?   What are the ladders on the big beams for?   We wandered in and out of the barn and, as their questions became more frequent, we watched them explore, finding their own answers.   They tested the ropes, discovering that you could swing from one to the next.   The ladders were climbed, their fearless limbs taking them to the top.  

When the questions slowed, we took them to see the house.   The house, in itself, makes me unsure of how and when I agreed to raise my children here.

Large and old, it greeted us that day with peeling, green paint.   The windows had been stripped, the glass taken by the old, stingy farmer who had left two years ago.   The kitchen provided no sink and even with three floors we had one bathroom.   The stairs to the second floor looked so narrow and steep, I feared I could not climb them without slipping.   As my husband acted as the silly tour guide for my daughters I stepped to the back door to catch my breath.   I recall wanting to cry, I tried so hard, willing tears to my eyes, down my cheeks, yet none came.   For, before me, lay fields and pastures that would offer their seeds and their growth.   In the distance, up on the hill, I could see the pines that would give us a place to picnic and find shade in the summer.   Beyond that I knew stood steadfast blackberry bushes, making promises to my family's palette of fresh pies and johnnycake toppings.

That day, I would not cry.   That day my shoulders were not yet sore from the many wheelbarrow trips to feed the cows.   That day I knew nothing of sleeps interrupted by the neighborhood dogs who could jump through the windows.   They day I did not know that it takes weeks, months to make a farm profitable.   That I would buy bed sheets at the Open Door Mission to lay as our tablecloth.   That my little girls would still share a twin mattress come September.   That my sister would give me clothes her older daughter had grown out of, I would wrap them and pretend I went school shopping for my daughters.   That day I did not know the ways of the world I would be quickly schooled in after our move.  

Yet, it is that day that I remind my husband of after we lose our first cow to childbirth.   It is that day that I think of while I wash our dishes in the bathtub.   And it is that day, that view of strength and hope that I return to when I cannot stop the tears.

Lisa Marie Middendorf is a 2001 graduate of St. John Fisher College in Rochester, New York, USA. After college, she spent a year working for AmeriCorp, a corporation for national and community service. She is currently studying for her MA at SUNY Brockport, in Brockport, New York, USA.