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August 2009
A Sense of Place
Dear Friends,
A few years ago, a Virginia farmer wrote a book called, "Farming a Battlefield." In this book, he described the unusual, honored feeling he received each time he was out in the field haying, knowing that the land where his peaceful pastoral pursuits were taking place, was the same terrain covered by a sprawling, bloody Civil War battle in 1862.
He talked about finding Civil War shells, buttons from uniforms of the Blue and the Gray and other physical materials of war, reminding him that young men died on the ground where his tractor sped across the field. He also discussed the feeling he got from living and working on that "hallowed ground."
Not many battles have taken place in northeast Nebraska, although there were skirmishes, I would imagine, during the settlement years, between settlers, between settlers and members of local tribes, and earlier still, between the tribes themselves.
Living and tilling the soil along West Bow Creek, we have discovered stone tools that were probably used by Native Americans who lived in the same valley, and perhaps farmed the same land centuries ago. As we look out upon the low fields along the creek, we can almost imagine the smoke from campfires billowing up into the blue sky from small villages along the snaking stream.
As European settlers began to settle the area, things changed considerably. The quarter section where we live was once the home of three different families, before it was combined into one piece of land. Perhaps those early families were squatters, or maybe they gave farming a try, but failed. Little remains, except some bumps in the pasture, of their early homes. Yet we can imagine what challenges they may have faced in those early years, hauling water up from the creek in the winter, dragging twigs and firewood from the creek for cooking and warmth, and scraping out a living without any nearby neighbors for support.
There is a photo dated sometime in the 1930s or 1940s of my grandfather taking a break from fieldwork, sitting on a horse drawn implement, with the horses paused from their work, hooked up and ready to go. It appears from the rough black and white photo that Grandpa is looking out over that same creek valley. I’m not sure if he’s taking a break, or maybe he was looking out over the field where he was working, thinking about all the sweat and toil that was ahead of him.
Maybe Grandpa was thinking about the old farm, about the folks who had farmed the land before him, or about the people that had crossed the land centuries earlier. Maybe he was thinking about who might farm the land after he was gone. If he were like me, he was probably thinking about how he was going to pay the mounting bills, or about the drought or grasshoppers that might ruin the crops.
Machinery wears out. Horses and livestock eventually die. Our ancestors live out their lives and pass away. But the land remains. The physical terrain of hills and valleys, trees and meadows trigger something very special in the hearts and souls of farmers. After all, we never really own the land. We only care for it during our lives, and try to maintain it in good shape for the next generation.
Hope you have a good week.
W.K. Kellogg Foundation
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