Just a Half Mile West of the Farm

When our sons were young, we would drive to the farm in North Dakota and spend a couple of weeks living the fabulous farm life each summer. My parents would put us up and we'd enjoy outdoor fun, tractor rides, combine rides, golf cart driving, go cart driving, picnics, family, cousins, reunions, and church. We puddle stomped on rainy days, we rode rafts on the coulee, we made forts in the trees, we walked fields, we packed lunches to take on hikes through the "time tunnel" and tall grass to magical places while our imaginations ran wild. I was inexorably compelled to make the trip each year and we made terrific memories.

My memories started early as a little girl growing up on that farm. My respect for my Dad, Uncle, Grandpas, Brother and other farmers steered me into agriculture as a career. My fascination with the beauty, productivity, and miracle of seeds developing into harvestable crops remains. The chemistry of the soils, the joy of the seasons, the dependence on the weather, the demands of technology, the teamwork, and the intuitive "art of farming" still hold me captive. 

For 25 years, while our family grew, I reserved two weeks in the fall to help with sugar beet harvest on the farm. I'd drive my truck from midnight to noon loading and unloading as many times as I could as a part of the harvest crew. It was invigorating! It was scary, fun, difficult, challenging and magical. Being on the harvest team filled me and thrilled me, and my Mom, who loved the farm even more than me, noticed.

When I'd get off my 12 hour shift at noon, Mom and I would review the progress of the crew and scout the next field that would be harvested paying special attention to the crossings where the large trucks would enter and exit. This was important as I'd be coming back to work in the dark, and loaded trucks on narrow crossings had to be managed with care. Seeing the approaches to the fields in the daylight would help me navigate my loaded semi on those crossings at night. Then Mom and I would drive on and share our stories of our truck driving and farm experiences and we'd grow even closer. One day as we came back to the farm she pointed at the beautiful cottonwood trees just a half mile west of the farm and remarked how appropriate it was that I loved the farm so much. Then her face softened even more, she smiled, almost shyly, and gently shared the following story.

When my parents were 25 years old, they had three little children (Laurie - 4 1/2, Rob - 3, and Pam 2 months) and lived on the Green Farm. They earned the right to live there as the oldest children of George and Johanna Green. They managed the farm along with Dad's sister Carol and her husband Ralph Tucker. They were young, fun and extremely busy. On a pretty evening in late May of 1957, they arranged for a baby sitter and went on their first "date" since bringing their newest baby home. The date plan was actually just a "crop tour" into St. Thomas, ND (6.5 miles away) by way of the fields they were farming, a visit with friends at the American Legion Club, a few adult beverages, and a quiet drive home. They knew that once they got home they'd need to take the baby sitter home, deal with any little ones who might still be up, clean, organize and plan for the next day. They were a little reluctant to hurry right home. The evening was delightful, warm and starry, and one of them had a twinkle in his eye. 

Mom says they stopped the car and threw a blanket onto the soft green grass under the cottonwood trees that rustled in the light evening breeze. They were just a half mile west of the farm. She said they felt like irresponsible kids, smugly delighted with their growing family, the beautiful crops, and the love they shared. She knew she couldn't get pregnant because she was still nursing her 2 month old baby Pamela. But she was wrong.

Nine months later my parents welcomed their fourth child. My sister Pam and I are Irish Twins (no offense intended to the Irish!) and proud of it. All of us kids know we were conceived in love and I appreciate (and am quite amazed) that Mom shared this story with me. 

Someday, I hope someone will toss some of my ashes out... just a half mile west of the farm.