The Farm

There is agricultural land all over that are known as “farms” – big farms, little farms, corporate farms, family farms, and hobby farms. But of all the farms to be found in this great big country, only 160 acres in North Central Oklahoma is referred to as The (pronounced with a short “e”) Farm. The Farm was my boyhood play ground. It was the place my grandparents called home, and a magical place that I loved to visit.

Sunday, we had a reunion of sorts at The Farm. Two cousins from Arizona were visiting and wanted to have a day to reminisce and catch up. The weather turned just in time – the blazing heat subsided and made for a wonderful day. I ran around looking in every building, rummaged through the house – a house that is still in good shape despite being unoccupied for five years, and generally had a good time. Even though it was close to 90, the air under the shade of a tree was cool, aided by a breeze that always blows at The Farm. Even the hottest day is bearable in the shade at The Farm.

The Farm brings back memories that could have only been made there. A lot of the things that were a mainstay of my youth are gone. The three-wheeler, the sleds, the BB guns, the chicken coop that doubled as a club house, the hay stack, the horse, the cattle, and even two of the shade trees have been removed. I spent a lot of time riding the three-wheeler on dry, dead dirt simply known as the salt water ground. Many years ago, a salt water tank, holding the byproduct of oil production over flowed and rendered the soil sterile. Nothing grew there. That made it ideal for three-wheeling. Even that has been cleaned up and now boasts a modest crop of weeds and prairie grass.

Of course the best times were when my grandparents were alive. For a city boy from Kansas, they taught me valuable life lessons. I learned so much on The Farm: how to gather eggs, how to check oil in the tanks, how to brand a cow, how to bottle feed a calf, how to ride a horse, and how to catch a fish. I learned to hunt, bale hay, cut wheat, plow a field, drive a tractor, run a trot line, catch crawdads, and build fence. My papa taught me woodworking, dog shearing, bullshitting, knife sharpening, and gardening. I learned that my grandma made the world’s best fried chicken, fried quail, green beans, mashed potatoes, jello, and oatmeal. I learned to get up early, work hard, and have fun. Most of all I learned that family mattered.

The best times at The Farm were Christmas, and Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July. Christmas was quail, more gifts that a boy should get, family, and fun. Thanksgiving was family, turkey, sweet potatoes, hunting, and fun. The Fourth of July was firecrackers, watermelon, homemade ice cream, bottled pop, and lots of family and fun.

Sunday was great. I fished like times past. I brought home a box of mementos. I relived my youth. The barn is still there, but no haystack. The pond is still there, but the fish are smaller. The garage is still there, but grandma’s car is gone. The tools sit idle. The tractor seemed to call my papa’s name as I walked by. Even though The Farm has changed, it’s remarkably the same. My kids will never have the memories that I do, but I hope Sunday made a few that they’ll share some day.

D