“A map is the greatest of all epic poems. Its lines and colors show the realization of great dreams.”
— Gilbert Grosvenor
A few years ago, sorting through boxes of paperwork with my mother, I happened upon pages of field mapping Dad had done long ago.
Some were official Soil and Water Conservation District etches with notes, but of most interest to me were old pages with Dad’s distinctive handwriting. He was always planning, goal-driven to reach what others told him seemed an impossibility.
His father had not set him up for success in any way, shape or form, and Dad was quietly proud of the fact he had started with nothing and was making his own way with his bride and the family they built.
Knowing our way around the farms was important. Dad always let us know where he would be working during the busy crop season, just in case we needed him, or maybe treat him to fresh ice water and a snack.
All these years later, glancing at his field notes, I can hear his voice. “I’ll be working ground in the Wilderness field if you need me, but I hope to be done before milking time.”
One spring day when I had likely just turned 6 years old, my three big sisters were in school and Mom let me walk alone, all the way to what Dad had named the “round field,” carrying cold water and warm cookies right out of the oven. Dad’s smile lit up that day and I felt the largess of his appreciation.
I hadn’t done a darn thing but found my way, a map in my head of where to step off the path, the newly-planted cornfield a boundary to follow. Still, my simple accomplishment was rewarded by a kind, grateful dad. I got to ride a bit in the round field, my hands beside his on the steering wheel. The vibrant memory of that day shows how Dad could make a small thing feel wonderfully ceremonial.
Dad’s inclusiveness made us all want to help, and he said many times he never would have reached his goals without all of us pulling the weight of the daily work. The dairy herd was able to grow because we helped every day with the early morning milking and again after school. When a nearby farm became available, Dad and Mom were able to buy it. Each field on each farm was given a distinctive name by our dad, and the landscape felt like home. We explored it, walked it, and knew it as a part of us.
What our parents built seems almost larger than life. I admire how we shared those farms with anyone who asked permission to hunt, search for arrowheads or simply take a walk in nature.
Mushroom hunters would come to our house to share their success and my parents welcomed them with a cold lemonade or a cup of coffee. “Don’t get a belly ache!” Dad would say with a grin as goodbyes were spoken.
When his father died in 1991, Dad bought out his surviving siblings’ shares of the ancestral homestead. He was grateful our hard work provided equity power to buy it at fair market value, a farm which had frontage on three roads. His deepest pride, he said, was not a single thing was given to him and he did right by his sister and brother.
Dad died in 1995, only 63. At that time, my parents owned five farms. Mom signed the large farming operation, one farm after another, over to her youngest, the only son. He was 31 years old in 1995. The dairy herd was soon sold, equipment too, and the farm ground rented out.
“There are places I’ll remember all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better, some have gone and some remain,” so says the lyrics of “In My Life” by John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
What remains for me is a box filled with maps of each farm. “A map tells you where you’ve been, where you are and where you’re going,” writes Peter Greenaway. As Grosvenor wrote, these old maps show the realization of great dreams, born into a little boy in 1932.
