Requiem for a Farmer

One of my fondest memories is of my great Uncle Albert. He was a dairy farmer for fifty years in Olive Bridge, New York. He had a beautiful farm at the base of Slide Mountain in the Catskills. He was a very unique and hardworking man, and he kept farming even after he had gone blind. He started the first fire department in Olive Bridge, and his first fire engine was a Massey Ferguson tractor that he named Car 44. He was a very talented musician. He put himself through Ag school by playing in dance bands!

I can still remember the funeral procession through the Ashokan Reservoir. When I looked out the window of our truck I could see the never ending line of cars and fire trucks. He spent his life on his farm in God’s country, and now he lies in a small cemetery on a hill looking out over a pasture full of cows. I will always miss him and I wish I could have spent more time with him.

Great Uncle Albert
Handshake like a vise but with powerful musical fingers
Story teller extraordinaire
Farmer who always had time for everyone
Bailing hay, milking cows, or driving to a fire on a tractor
Twinkling eyes
A ready smile
He lived in God's country and he always will.

—Edward Mann, Montgomery, New York

Save the Land for Future Generations

My life-long love of farms and animals was fostered by visits to my grandparents’ farm in western Pennsylvania. Laura and Christian Wilson owned Larchland, a 200-acre dairy and sheep farm. The farm had rolling hills, pastures, woods, and a stream. Their collie herded the sheep. Grandpa was proud of using contour farming methods; I read his copy of Silent Spring when I was 12.

I appreciate the work that you do, so that future generations of children can have experiences like mine. I wrote the enclosed poem based on my memories of the farm.

Larchland Evening

Red cows ambled toward him —
"Reba! Ruth! Let's go Dolly and Nell! Come on, Big Red!"
He coaxed them into the twilight barn with
     a pat on their auburn flanks.
I tagged along, listening to the jangle of
     stanchions and the rhythmic whistle
     of milk on metal.
He wanted me to try my hand at milking:
he offered the stool and showed how to
     hold their teats
But I hung back, afraid.
Still, I loved it there
watching his huge and gnarled hands
draw out the warm white streams.

The barn filled with the rustle of hay and
     the steady sound of chewing.
Barn cats deftly caught milk aimed their way
while flies rose up, dislodged by long rope tails.
The row of faces watched me with
     their dark-lashed eyes.
It was suppertime in my favorite place:
with Grandpa, and our friends the cows.

—Christy Klim, Ann Arbor, Michigan

Florida Farms Are Important

Please consider the state of Florida in your publication: oranges, grapes, cattle, fish (yes fish are farmed—and non toxic to a consumer). Land is being sold which could, and has sustained organic crops. Please involve the ranchers and farmers in Florida.

There is a Cree proverb: “Only when the last tree has died/and the last river has been poisoned/and the last fish has been caught/will we realize that we can’t eat money.”

—Evon Lowery, Deland, Florida