"Not too long after Diane and I moved to Mount Pleasant, I got a call from a farmer named Don Hatfield. Don and his brother had just taken over their uncle's dairy farm in Mecosta County, and they needed help with a calving. 'We're having trouble getting the calf out of the cow, " he said in his wonderfully deep voice I got to know so well. When we started talking, Don admitted he didn't know much about dairying because his uncle, who had recently died, had taken care of the cows. So I spent quite a bit of time with at the farm, helping them out, teaching them how to care or their livestock. Don's family had been on the land a long time; that barn was just about one hundred years old. He was a wonderful man whose real passion was the history of this part of central Michigan. He interviewed all the old-timers and then compiled thick books telling the story of this area. Don did okay on the farm for a long time, then he more or less retired and sold the cows. When Don quit the barn I went over there and picked up some things I found lying around that I still have, like porcelain mineral cups for the cows. 'Take whatever you want,' Don told me. I still hear that beautiful grumble of his voice in my head.
The next thing I know, the farm was sold to a potato farmer, who dug a big hole and pushed the beautiful old stone house and the barn into it and covered them up. I drove by the place once and stopped to take a good look, and I couldn't even tell where the house and barn had been. All that was let standing was the electrical pole with a transformer. I just sat there for a little while staring sadly at that field and remembering the people who had once been there. A hundred years of farming history pushed into a hole."
Nat Geo Wild's "Incredible" Dr. Jan Pol
From his book, Never Turn Your Back on an Angus Cow
So, about "the people who had once been there..."
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| As I will remember it. |
In the grand scheme of things, it was seven years of my life. But in that seven years, I learned more about life, than I did in the Marine Corps, and college combined. In those fields I learned about working hard, being honest and respecting others--about respecting life. Everything on that farm had to do with life. The cattle were the revenue, the beef and the milk for your cereal. To lose a cow meant money out of my grandfather's pocket, money that they didn't have. We cared for the cattle and and they provided for us. The same with the crops. It was never said out loud, it was just the natural understanding of the land and the way of life. It was simple, but not easy.
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| The Centennial Farm Sign |
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| The old barn in 2011 |
And there was family. Every noon the men (and boys) would gather for dinner that grandma had spent the morning working on. Every Christmas, Thanksgiving or birthday, the vehicles would start rolling into the driveways of the uncles or the cousins. On some occasions, our cousins from Plainwell would actually fly in, landing their little aircraft in the hay field to the south of my grandparent's house. They would bring in crockpots filled with "sunday potatoes," "hot fudge pudding," and meat for the grill. Every year the whole family would gather and roast a pig, enjoying good food and each other.
As these words are written, an offer has been accepted for the sale of the farmhouse Don and Edna shared. In the old grey house with the dirt cellar, I spent many nights, and ate many meals at the small kitchen table. With that it is all gone, and it won't be coming back. It is bittersweet to be certain, but like all things in life, it had to move on.
My grandfather meant the world to many. It was not just me who loved and respected him. All of his six children, his many grand children and great grand children were there with him at one point or another, until the end. Including me.
When I arrived at the Grand Rapids international airport, I was greeted by my father, and we climbed into his bog diesel GMC truck and began the hour and a half drive to Isabella County. I received a phone call along the way, telling us to hurry--my grandfather was fading fast. I knew my grandfather was unconscious at this point, but asked my mother to pass along a message to him.
"Tell him I'm coming," I said. I was the last grandchild to pay my respect to the patriarch of this wonderful family. "Tell him, it's okay if he can't wait any more. I know it must be hard," I told her, "but tell him I'm coming."
I hung up.
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| My grandfather, Donald Hatfield, one of the most honorable men I have ever known |
We pulled into the driveway forty five minutes later. I saw my uncle standing outside, and greeted him. I walked up the ramp to the front door that had not been there when I was a kid (but then they were younger and stronger then, too), and into the "mud room," I continued through the laundry and kitchen which still looked and smelled the same way that they always had. I embraced my grandmother and kissed her gently, and moved into the dining room where my grandfather lay in the hospital bed provided for him by hospice.
Even in his final moments he was huge. His ribs stood out like a whiskey barrel, and his hands that had loved to tinker and fiddle that could fix anything that was broken (albeit not always the best way), were still enormous mallets. I kissed his forehead and remember saying "Look at you, old man."
I sat down next to him on his left side, and my grandmother on his right, holding his hand. I whispered to him what I needed him to know, but was certain that he already did; That I loved him and honored him, and thanked him for everything that he ever did for me, and ever taught me--and I thanked him for waiting for me. I sat their holding his wrist, feeling his pulse still so strong gradually weaken and finally stop.
Not long after I stood in front of the old garage with my uncle and cousins. I had brought with me a bottle of bourbon, and we passed it around between us. We shared some words, and some memories. I looked around the old shop, found a hammer and gently removed the old horseshoe that hung above the small room that I had spent so many a cold winter day sorting thousands of nuts, bolts and screws. That horseshoe had been there longer than anyone could remember, and best guess was that it had belonged to my great, great grandfather. It was September in Michigan, and while it wasn't cold yet, there was the beginning of that distinct smell of fall in the air.
I wasn't sad.
I tell people to this day, that my grandfather died like a boss. His way. Surrounded by the people and things that were most important to him.
It was less than a year later that my grandmother joined him. Unfortunately, I could not be there.
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| My grandmother, Edna at her 80th Birthday |
Whereas my grandfather was the quiet, patient one everyone respected, my grandmother was his polar opposite. She was the loud one, she was the one who barked. She was stubborn and I believe that she was proud of that. She was and will always be to a degree, remembered as just that--a stubborn old woman. She could make her grandchildren stop misbehaving and start crying merely by saying their name, but in spite of the harshness that many attributed to my grandmother, she could love like nobody else. She was "ornry" to be sure, but she was silly, and kind, and devoted to those that she cared for. When my grandfather died, I thanked her as well for all she had done for me growing up.
"Well," she said "Twasn't nuthin'. Your'e one of us." she said. Those may be the last words my grandmother said to me.
The first Christmas I was home from the Marine Corps, I went to the farm to pay my respects to my grandparents. I walked into the kitchen and there she was, alone cooking away, "making supper for the men," she told me.
"Got any world famous Christmas cookies?" I had asked her.
"I ain't got time for no cookies this year," she said. Edna Hatfield possibly used the word "ain't" more than any other person in America, and double negatives were her speciality.
"But Grandma," I said "It just isn't Christmas without your cookies." I meant it too.
I spent some time with her that morning, and after a while decided to go visit some other family members, go see the dairy barn and just have a look around. Eventually I went home to my parent's house and kind of forgot about the conversation with my grandmother.
The next day I was back, and again, she was in the kitchen preparing food. Cookies. The kitchen was filled with them. All kinds. She looked so pleased when I said hello, that she would likely burst. It meant the world to her that her adult grandson still came home for her cookies at Christmas time.
I may not be able to say that I am "an ole' country boy" anymore. The world for me, has moved on. I now have my own family and we are building our own traditions. I will not be able to take my children back to the family farm anymore, and they will not spend any nights in the upstairs bedroom filled with old boxes and ancient books like I did. They won't spend all morning raking hay or loading bales or picking stones. They won't know the experience of having to take a dip in the pool before lunch, not just to cool off, but to rinse they layers of dust from the field off of you before you could eat. What they will know is that they come from good, hardworking people who loved each other and loved and respected the land that was as much a part of them as anything.
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| One of my tribe, enjoying the simple life on the farm around 2011 |
It's okay.
Like I have said previously, it is how you are remembered that is important. It is what you have left behind that really counts. Thank you Don and Edna Hatfield for all that you have left behind, even though...
We are still savages.
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