Heritage—The Ancestral Farm

I had been to my dad's childhood home at least once that I remember -- probably while I was in college. At the time, the house had been abandoned for over two decades, and was in poor repair.

Now it's gone.

I wish I had paid better attention during that visit. I wish I had taken photographs. There is nothing at all to document that home's existence. My grandparents lived there while earning a living from the land and my dad was born there, which makes it historically interesting (at least to me). If I could see that house today, I'd study it while imagining what life must've been like a century ago, and what my father's day must've been like as he grew up in the 1920s. I would love to share those impressions with you, and with future generations; but at the time of my only visit to that farmhouse, the entirety of my observation was "This place is falling down."

Here's the spot today:



My grandfather owned and farmed 1/4 of a square mile. I can't imagine how such a small plot of land could sustain a family, especially when part of that area was taken up by a house, a barn, and a duck pond. I suppose it's enough to raise an animal or two, and enough crops to feed the family with some left over...but the additional revenue from such limited acreage hardly seems adequate to provide the comforts of a home and a car, much less the farm equipment required to perform the harvest.

Times were different back then. And it wasn't as though my grandfather was a prosperous farmer; some years were very lean, indeed. I suppose you could eat the ducks from the pond...and a cow and a few chickens could feed a family of three for a long time. But still, it had to be a challenging life.

The ducks do seem to like it there, though. And the soil still seems to be rich enough for a good harvest. It's probably no different than any other 1/4-section farm plot in Kansas, except for the fact that my dad grew up there. Compared to the glory and majesty of the Colorado mountains, a little green plot of land in the middle of a zillion other little green plots may not seem like much...but while I was standing there looking at the pond where my dad used to spend what little leisure time he had between backbreaking farm chores, well, I felt I could really appreciate the beauty and appeal of the place.

In this photo, looking southwest from the pond, you can just barely see Stafford's grain elevator in the distance.



We didn't stay there long; there was nothing to do but look at the empty fields and admire the realistic decoys someone had set in the pond. My dad told us a little more about living there, but without any trace of the house remaining, it was hard to visualize exactly what it was like when he rode his horse to school, played at the pond with his next-farm-over buddy, and cursed the stupid cows he had to milk every evening.

We were able to fill in some of the gaps in my dad's autobiography. There's still some writing and polishing to be done, but the story of his life will eventually be available. The book will include more photos, maps, and details of daily existence as my dad went from small-town life to eventually attain his college degree and work as an engineer in the airplane business. I'll let you know when that project is finished. We're getting close.

There are still a few mysteries, though. We know that my father's paternal granddad served as the town Marshall for a while, and is reputed to have been on a posse that chased Butch Cassidy at one point. His other grandfather fought for the North in the Civil War, and reportedly met Abraham Lincoln. But my dad doesn't remember which relative owned the business discussed in this ad, nor what the heck they were selling. All we know for sure is that members of the family did indeed head for the mountains a couple of generations later.

In addition to touring the town itself and searching through newspaper archives at the library, we also took a trip out to the cemetery. I remember being dragged there as a kid on various Memorial Day excursions -- my Grandma called it "Decoration Day". At that time, my only thoughts were "This is boring," and "When can we leave?" This trip, though, I was fascinated by the family history represented by those stones. I took photos of every grave marker that might provide data for my genealogy research. A large percentage of the families represented here are somehow intertwined with mine.


We completed our visit to Stafford by taking time for a pleasant chat with a couple of my dad's cousins, Ozelle and LaVon. These amiable sisters still live in their old hometown, and brought us up to date on the latest happenings in steadily shrinking Stafford. Turns out that, well...not much is going on there.

And sadly, it appears that the names Ozelle and LaVon are not very popular with parents who are naming their kids today. (There aren't many Comptons or Clancys being born these days, either.) I'll leave it to you to decide whether that's a social tragedy or not. For me, though, it was a good trip and I learned a lot. I think my dad enjoyed revisiting his youth, as well. I doubt he'll ever go back again, but I'm really glad he took the time to share his memories (and those tangible bits of our heritage) with my brother and I, and with my son. Thanks, Dad!