Tomorrow the farm that has been in our family since late 1800's will be auctioned.
It happens to be the place my siblings and I grew up.
I realized recently how few people get to experience growing up on a family farm.
There is something that settles deep inside you when you know that someone in your family long ago lifted every stone, cut every board, hammered every nail, set every fence post.
There is a sense of loyalty, and a sense of wonder, at all that was accomplished by those with so little.
There is work, always something that needs to be done.
Things are old and worn not to be chic, but because they've been useful and used for decades and somehow still work because they were built to last.
We roamed. We wandered. And we knew it was all ours.
We knew the depression in the ground which was the sod house that started it all.
We knew the favorite trails of the deer, watched beaver in the pond, and followed cow paths for fun.
We snuck mulberries that stained our fingers.
We made spears and swords and structures from wild sunflowers that grew in forests thick and tall.
We climbed our favorite cedar trees and felt we could see the world.
We built caves in the drifts of snow along fences; and used the tractor to pull our sleds.
It was a beautiful place to be a child.
It wasn't just anyplace in the country, it was ours.
And now it is gone.
Other's may take it, but will not know it like we do.
For our names were written in the land.