Our neighbor died last week, on the same rich soil on which he was born and lived most of his life. His parents bought the farm in 1929, and his family has lived there ever since. It is an old farmstead - complete with big old trees, a Sears and Roebuck house, and a sprinkling of rusty machinery lined up in the grove. Although the nine children of this family scattered world-wide, the draw of this sacred place calls them, their children, and their grandchildren home to the table of family again and again.
We were blessed to host the celebration of our neighbor's life this weekend. The Roost, and the fields around it, seemed to be a fitting place to honor this man who lived and died tending the soil. In this old building, the table that drew the family home was laden with food farm women have prepared for generations, and the manna of stories plentiful and satisfying.
We heard tales of Grant Township School #2 and the poor teacher who was locked in a coal shed by lively country boys. We learned of a farmstead that was dismantled, moved across the road, and reassembled into the farmstead we know. We learned of a barn fire on our farm, and the heroics of volunteer firemen who stayed in the hayloft of our adjoining barn - keeping the hay wet - which saved the barn we cherish today.
In each member of the family gathered we could see the blooms of the present and future unfold into the world from the deep roots of this old family. May it always be so...
---mary
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