I always worried about the steps I would need to take to settle things when the day came at to either of my parents passed away. I thought of the cows, how to care for them, and the dogs… Who would feed the cats? Mow the yard? I assumed I would pump the brakes on my own career for a while, put on my muddy old boots, and go back to being a farmer, at least for a little while.
How silly of me.
As much as I’ve gloated over the years regarding my farming prowess, I’m nothing without my dad. Now, it’s true that I can grow a garden by myself- cabbage, blackberries, cucumbers, peppers, corn and squash run in my veins. I can can preserves, make sweet pickles, put up green beans and corn for winter. I’ve even figured out a way to slice and freeze zucchini and yellow squash so they don’t disentegrate once thawed. I know how to till a tobacco field, and set out 10,000 pounds of the stuff, and I know how to spear, hang, cure, strip and bale it for sale. I know how to spear a bale of hay to set out for the cows, and how to mend a barb-wire fence, how to pick out a good cedar tree, cut it and strip it, and saw it into perfect lumber (on my own sawmill, no less). If I really need to, I can pull a fresh baby calf, though it’s not my favorite thing in the world. Could I keep our little home and farm completely operational on my own? Probably. Would it have the same outcome as it would if Daddy were next to me? No.
He knew this. He knew that I wasn’t born to be a farmer. He knew that the smartest, most logical thing to do was to sell.
The most logical thing. Definitely not the easiest.
Priority one was rehoming the animals- all 18 of them. First, Mom’s Jack Russell (aptly named Jack Russell) found a good home with her best friend. The little guy is now the apple of her 12-year-old son’s eye, and is learning new tricks while becoming a staple in their kid-filled neighborhood.
Then came the cattle. While a neighbor was perfectly fine stopping by to check on them each day, we knew that the best thing for both the neighbor and the cows was so send them to auction. I had my qualms- I’m a meat-eater. I always have been. I know that there are farmers that see these big, sweet babies as nothing more than walking sirloin, and I knew that there was a possibility of each of them being sold to one of these. I also knew, though, that there were farmers like us- farmers who, as Daddy put it, thought that our responsibility was to “give them the best life and the most love possible, until it was their time to take care of us.” Even then, he beleived in a quick and humane slaughter, and always gave thanks for the circle of life that nurtured him and his family. A little hippyish, sure, but comforting, given their fate. My baby, Horns, was gifted to the neighbor, with the promise that she continue to live a long, happy life as an outdoor pet.
Joker and Queen, Daddy’s farm dogs were shared on social media over and over, with no luck of finding them a home. After being wait-listed for weeks, we were finally able to drop them at the Kentucky Humane Society last week. A larger fee (and a massive donation) kept them on a no-kill list, with the promise of promotions via newspapers and tv. The poor things are each on their own at separate Feeder’s Supply stores here in Louisville, learning (quickly, I’ve heard) how to walk on a leash and alert their caretakers when they need to use the bathroom. My heart is heavy for them, and I’m still fighting the urge to go rescue them both and bring them home, but I continue to hope that someone will fall in love with Queen’s affection, and with Joker’s good looks.
Butter and Frank, the cats, we’re taken in by a cousin. He also lives on a good-sized piece of land where timid Butter can find her new favorite hiding spots, and Frank can claim the porch as his own. I’m ready to hear when he begins gifting his new owner with mice, moles, snakes, and rabbits. He’s a wonderful hunter. If I weren’t so deathly allergic, both cats would have moved in here… Though a thorough declawing would have happened. Frank is affectionate, and his little kneading sometimes turns a little bloody- never fun.
I hope they’re all happy in their new homes, and that Joker and Queen find new humans soon (otherwise we are going to have one very full house). But with the working cats gone, the pups waiting on homes, and the cows split up and sold, it seems as if there’s really no reason to return to the farm anytime soon. There are no crops out, the grass isn’t at mowing-height yet, and we’ve already sorted through furniture, clothing, old photo albums. I still own the farm, but for now, there’s nothing there left alive. It’s just a house. It’s just some trees. It’s just everything I’ve ever known.
** Horns’s close-up, Christmas, 2015 **
