Jared has been out of town on business for a few weeks, so last week I took the kids back to my homestead in NE Iowa. My parents have 10 acres on the outskirts of town (a town of 1100 and dwindling). Seven miles NE of town lies the rolling hills of our family farm. Its no longer farmed by our family, many fields have sat dormant for the past two decades as family farms could no longer stay afloat. The fields were sold or went into the CRP program, where their labors would rest and the native grasslands it sustained generations before would slowly return.
I have watched many sunsets from these hills, its hard to describe the feeling of home, those who grew up on the ridge understand the link between family, blood and the land.
My father called me a few weeks ago and said he was cleaning out the barn (which is like an antique shop in itself). I always like poking around in the hay mow, its like a scene out of a movie, trunks, old furniture, books from the turn of the century, old art work sheeted in cloth with a layer of dust that makes everything look gray and mysterious. He said there was something of mine up there. Um ya, like a dozen landscape architectural models from my college years, to big to put in your house, too many hours invested to trash. I have cattle fair boxes and cc skis, old sleds and kayak parts. I hoisted myself up the boards nailed to the barn wall and into the musty old loft. Growing up we spent hours playing in this loft, this was my first visit back in years. And what I found surprised me, it was an old trunk, coated with dust and a simple yellowed sheet of paper that said Em. We dragged it down from the loft and threw it in the van.
The trunk, origin not completely verified, is thought to be my Gt. Gt. Grandparent(s) immigration trunk from England. Inside held few articles, a cookbook of my grandmothers, some of her text books when she was a teacher in the 1930's, a 1940's Webster Dictionary and a tarnished silver spoon. If it really is that trunk they immigrated to Iowa late, circa 1850-1860. The Alderson's would have broken true prairie sod to start their farms in NE Iowa. They would have built the massive Gothic barns at the height of their farming success that now crumble under years rural economic depression. They raised their families in these hills, worshiped in the rural congregations, endured the brutal winters, waiting patiently for technology to reach the area easing their daily burdens. This would become their land, their home. As generations passed their horses and mules would be replaced with machines, the worn harnesses stowed in hip roofs to collect dust, becoming artifacts of a forgotten lifestyle. And after a lifetime in the fields, they would return their worn bodies to the land that prospered them, buried in a peaceful rural cemetery at the base of the ridge, waiting for the following generations to join them for eternity.
As I brought the trunk in this week, it made me think about the sacrifice of previous generations. It took a night to carefully clean, but in the end the trunk itself was intact, the hinges functional, and the wood strong. For such a functional crate, to be boarded on a boat to the Americas and pulled across the plains, there is beauty in the design and the structure. It now has become part out our home, a daily reminder to me of who I am and and a feeling of overwhelming gratitude of the great sacrifices of my preceding generations. And maybe a better understanding of the yearnings to be connected with the land.
Before
After
