For everything there is a season
By PAT WICK
© Another Day in the Country
It was the Solstice this week, that magical date on the calendar that declares a shift of seasons. There is a certain feeling in the air as nature gently reminds us that it is time to wind down, gather in the fruits of our harvest to sustain us, put up the storm windows, and stack the wood in preparation for winter. There's a crispness in the air, come Fall. And a glorious color as the leaves change from green to gold. Communities call celebrations and revel in the fact that a summer season has been good and now fall signals the time for rest — whether that is the people resting or the ground lying fallow.
Born on a farm, raised on a farm, beginning his own family on a farm right here near Ramona, my father made a huge life decision when he still was in the spring of his life and that was to go away to college. He left the farm. This decision shaped the rest of his days. When he got close to retirement, though, the country called out to him and created what we called a mini-farm. He could have space. He could raise some calves, a few chickens. They could have a big garden and pastures, smooth and green, with white fences enclosing their boundaries. "I don't ever want to move again," said my mother who had survived way too many moves. "This is it!" said my dad.
And then time took its toll and they were needing to leave the farm because the winter of their life is here. I stood in the hay mow of Dad's barn, a couple of weeks ago, looking out across the farm, remembering all the times our family has moved "off the farm," and marveling at that ancient tug that keeps drawing us back to country living.
I was five when we first moved off the farm outside of Ramona. When I was nine my Grandpa Schubert moved off his farm and into town.
When I was 13, my Grandpa and Grandma Ehrhardt moved off their farm. They went to Lincoln, Neb., a college town where several years later I went to school and had the privilege of eating dinner at Grandma's table after church. While we put out the meal, Grandpa would sit in the living room and talk to himself — that always was a phenomena that intrigued me. He still was processing this shift in lifestyle. "What's a man supposed to do in the city?" he'd say to himself. "There's nothing here." Grandma would hear his mutterings and say, "Listen to him going on like that. I'd die before I ever went back."
And here I stood in the middle of their dilemma, remembering how it broke my heart when they left the farm. For me, the farm had stood for all things good — fresh roasting ears from the garden, crispy fried chicken, cousins to play with, feather beds, and mysterious attics. The farm meant wide open spaces, riding horseback, the smell of fresh cut hay, the sound and smell of cows being milked in the early morning hours, the creak of the windmill, the cold tank water for splashing in on hot summer days. For Grandma, the memories were a harsh and impoverished reality.
When I was 18, Uncle Hank moved off the Schubert family farm northwest of Ramona and it was sold. It took our family a while to adjust to the fact that the "home place" was no longer home. "I was ready to leave," my uncle says, "we'd had several years when it was so hot and dry. Why I remember your Aunt Gertie and I in that old Kaiser car driving around handing out sale bills. The sun was so hot that you couldn't hold your hand on the dash board — 118 degrees. I didn't know what I'd do, but I was ready to quit farming."
And now, the seasons change again and another leave-taking from the farm is called for with the sale bill already posted. We're not quite sure what we're going to do either, but we're trusting that for everything there is a season and a proper time for everything under the sun.
In the midst of change, there will be yet another day in the country. Ramona isn't the farm, but it's close!
