Day #136 Writing Through COVID-19: Last Day on the Farm

This morning, I'll drive my parents back to Ft. Dodge. Until COVID-19, they hadn't visited me in years, and since relinquishing their drivers' licenses and giving my sister their car, their travel is limited. Add to this the COVID constraints on care centers and the confusion my mom experiences with a change in location, and you get the picture. Odds are they will not see the farm again. 

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I grew up in Ft. Dodge, an ag-dependent city of about 25 k. I happily ignored agriculture until I met and married farmer Dan. 

But after living in rural Iowa for 36 years, I cannot imagine who I would be without these views, this space, the planting-growing -harvesting rotation. I think only Grant Wood came close to expressing how I feel about life in these rolling hills.

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That said, my father grew up in poverty on a farm near Buffalo Center. The farm was something to escape from. 

My mother's family moved to a farm when she was 14. Her father had been the school principal, promised the superintendent position, and then passed over for the promotion. He resigned in protest and moved his unhappy family to the farm. This was during the Great Depression.

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So if my parents' feelings about farming are if not outright hostile, they are at least conflicted. 

As I grew into my farming identity over the past decades, I would from time to time talk to my dad about Dan's progress in the field. My mother would ask questions about monocots and dicots, designed to spotlight her own vocabulary rather than authentically engage my farmer-husband in conversation.

Then my parents arrived on March 21. The land was gray from winter. Over the next month, they watched the lawn begin to green. On April 20, Dan began planting soybeans. 

Soon we could see the tips of green corn over the terrace, then we could see rows. 

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Each morning my mom reports on the glorious sunrise that has greeted her eastern view. 

My parents have come to think of our rural lawn as their personal Eden. 

During the past few weeks, my dad's been driving his scooter to the edge of the cornfield, then (treacherous!) hobbling into the corn to pick an ear and observe its progress toward harvest. 

Harvest.

I am sorry my parents will be abandoning the season at its apex. Harvest has its own piquancy. 

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Why am I obsessing about the farm and its seasons this morning? I think it is a metaphor.

My parents and I have spent almost a half year together. We began with bare ground after our relationship had lain fallow for years.

But this spring offered us--as spring does--a fresh start.

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Yesterday my parents and I played Bridge for nearly two hours. We vociferously defended our bids, howled with pleasure as tricks fell our way, and moaned in dismay when we were set. 

Because we played 3-handed, one of us always had to move from the dummy position to take up the other hand. My mom said, "It's hard to tell who are your enemies and who are your friends!"

I agreed: "Especially when they all look like relatives!" 

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I do not remember the final time I held both my toddler twins, one on each hip. I am relieved I did not know the last time I set them down would be my last. I could not have borne such a profound moment of letting go. 

I have likewise been spared the memories associated with the last time each of my children nursed at my breast. 

These moments of letting go would have been my undoing if I'd realized them at the time.

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Yesterday.

We played our last Bridge game.

I served up the last supper.

We packed the car.

I brought my mom her meds.

Klondike bars.

A movie.

I kissed them both goodnight, and told them how glad I was we had this time together. 

My dad said, "This really has been nice."

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Wolf is milk drunk.