Our farm was tucked into a valley, right in the middle of a climate zone where we were at least two weeks ahead of the other farmers in the area. It gave us an advantage in the spring months, but made it a little harder in the fall months when we were trying to bring in the harvest before winter.
We did nearly everything; horses, corn, strawberries, apples, peaches, cherries, plums, pumpkins, tomatoes, beans, potatoes. We raised cattle for beef and for milk. You name, our farm probably had it so long as it could grow in this region.
It was one of the many things I loved about coming home, the rolling hills, the horses down below in their pen, the fields laid open and bare just waiting for the new crop. The cattle grazing in the fields, the apple blossoms lighting up the valley with their white blooms, and the red tractor standing out against the white barn. These were the things I treasured, the things I long for when I was away.
And yet, this time it was different. This time, I knew it would be my last trip. Our farm was being sold.
Across from the old cemetery on the hill lies the farm below. Tell me about it. Write me a story.
Your Story is a SethSnap series in which you get to decide the story behind the photo. You can write a story, a poem or even just one word. You decide. Put on your best overalls, wear your best John Deere hat, crank your tractorand go! To see previous Your Story posts click on “Story Time” on the right.