My family arrived at Westfalcon Farm just after noon – the sun was shining, a slight breeze was blowing across the open fields, but not hard enough to turn Mr. Squeaky (the 103-yr. old windmill that my children named), and temperatures were holding steady at 70F. The day had come – 2,000 three-year old Christmas trees had arrived, bare root, and ready to plant. We all slipped into our work boots, grabbed our water bottles, and headed for the trail that would lead us to the old hay field. Long grasses, sumac, birch trees, and white pines lined the foot path that had been recently mowed by my father in anticipation of the arrival of his helpers. The kids ran ahead with the dogs after hearing the distant hum of the tractor. I heard my mother exclaim “Well, look who’s here! How are you?” as we entered the clearing to the field. The kids replied “Hi, Grandma! We’re good.” and the dogs started whimpering with excitement as they love seeing Grandma and Grandpa. “Boy am I glad you all are here.” my mom said as we neared the table where my mother and aunt were working diligently at trimming long tree roots, and dipping them in root gel. “Where do you want us? We’re ready to work!” I greeted them with a smile. Truth is, I had been looking forward to this day for the past month. I want, more than anything, to be a part of starting this Christmas tree business on the farm that my ancestors homesteaded in the late 1800’s. From the time I was a little girl, I have dreamed of living in the country – working hard on a farm. Thanks to my parents, I get a little taste of that. “We really need stompers.” my mother said. I looked out over the dusty field and saw my grandfather on top of the ’62 Massey-Ferguson tractor, waiting for my father. My father had been riding on the mechanical Christmas tree planter behind the tractor planting trees, but had stopped to help my uncle straighten the trees that had been planted, and stomp the ground around them in order to secure the roots. “You got it.” I said. Our family ran out to the old red tractor and began stomping. With additional stompers we were able to keep up with the tractor and the mechanical transplanter as my father plopped the young trees into the holes that the machine was opening up in the earth. Seeing the ease with which trees could be planted astounded me. A whole row could be planted as quickly as just a few trees planted by hand. As I tended to the trees, I had time to think about my great-grandfather and his family farming this very land. In one of my great-grandfather’s memoirs, he reflected on working on the farm and wrote: We children were very active as we planted all the potatoes. We would take a one-row walking cultivator and one horse and walk behind that for weeks. I started plowing on a 25 acre field using a Janesville walking plow. I was rather short and the plow handles would knock me over when I hit a rock – being just 12-years old. I would sit down on the edge of the furrow and cry. Soon I had mastered the job and loved to plow, although walking all day behind one would tire even a kid. When cultivating season was over and the last hilling done, we would walk up and down the rows of potatoes pulling the weeds that had escaped the cultivator. Usually we planted 25 acres, but the year of 1914, we planted 42 acres. We kids picked all the potatoes and it was a heavy crop. At harvest time, we dug about 22 acres with our Hoover Digger, and 20 acres we dug with a fork. I can’t imagine the awe my great-grandfather must have experienced as he transitioned from the hard manual labor of the early 1900’s to owning his first John Deere tractor in 1950. There is one entry in his memoirs where he mentions this exact thing: I think as I look back that the lives that had the fate to be lived during this period 1900 to 1974 have been blessed with the richest experiences of any lives. Because in this time, we have seen the first automobile, the first phonographs, and the first airplanes. In other words, all major improvements have come within these years. After half of the field was planted, my mother drove back to the house to prepare lunch for the planting crew. By this time, my brother and his wife arrived to help with the trees too. Within a half an hour, my mother had returned with a potato bake, fresh fruit, coffee cake, and more. The adults sat on chairs surrounding a large wagon, and the kids climbed right on top of the wagon and sat right next to the food. “Mom, I love that you brought the food out to the field – thank you!” I remarked. “Oh you’re welcome! That’s how they used to do it back then.” She responded. “Serving the food on the side of the field makes sense. It would take a lot longer to get the crew to the house, have them eat, and then come back out. This saves a lot of time.” I commented. Everyone finished eating in no time, but grandpa had taken off somewhere, so I turned to my dad and asked him “Do you trust me to drive the tractor, Dad?” “Absolutely!” he responded. After a quick lesson, I was the one behind the big black wheel. The Massey-Ferguson jolted a couple of times as I eased off of the clutch a little too quick the first time. I looked back, crinkling up my nose, and yelled “Sorry, Dad!” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up as he braced himself on the
Farm History
The Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge: The Weathered Farm
Think of the things this farm has seen, the many people it has known, the storms the farm has weathered.
Christmas Memories: A Doll For Grandma
Porcelain-white skin, lips tinted rose, eyes painted with exquisite detail. What would her hair look like? Long blonde locks that brush her ankles, two auburn-colored braids that playfully hang down from each side of her ball cap, or raven-black ringlets that delicately frame her face – I could only guess. Most outfits were fancy gowns trimmed with lace, but another was a softball uniform, and one was a beautiful red sweater with plaid skirt that included ice skates as an accessory. When I was a young girl, I remember running down Grandma and Grandpa’s stairs at Christmas time to the Christmas tree they had decorated so nicely. I’d gently search through the gifts until I found the one with my name on it. Every year the box was roughly the same shape and size, and I always knew what would be carefully wrapped up inside – and yet the excitement never waned. When the time came for presents to be opened, my parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents would gather in a circle to read the Bible. As a child, it was so hard to sit still for the reading, so as soon as the scripture reading was finished, the kids would jump up and hand out presents to their grateful recipients. Everyone got one present from Grandma and Grandpa – simple and sweet. Logs crackled in the fireplace, cheeks were pink from the heat of the fire, the murmur of relatives chatting could be heard, and the smell of delicious holiday food filled the room. All of this was drowned out as I started to unwrap my gift. The tag with my name on it was always written in my Grandma’s beautiful handwriting, and the rectangular boxes were expertly wrapped. I’d take my time unwrapping my gift, as I knew the suspense would only last a moment. After I removed the top of the box, I gently unfolded the tissue paper that protected my gift, and there she was – my new porcelain doll. For many years my grandmother picked out a new porcelain doll to give me for Christmas. Each and every one was special to me. All throughout my childhood my dolls were displayed on my dressers, shelves, and any other open spaces I had in my room. I spent hours playing with them and combing their hair (which I found out later was not a great idea – doll hair is not like human hair). I still have my dolls, and now my daughter enjoys playing with them and taking care of them. Grandma always loved dolls, and I was not the only one she bought porcelain dolls for. She also bought them for the other girls in the family, and for herself. She once told me that when she was a little girl, her family didn’t have much money, but she remembered getting a doll when she was young – a treasured possession. I often wonder if this was why she continued to collect dolls. A few days ago, my great-uncle sent me a document that had been written by my great-grandfather (my grandma’s father) in 1977. In this document, Great-Grandpa reminisced of Christmas’ past, and I found a special mention of my grandmother (Connie) inside of it. Christmas was better as our children came and gave us incentive for celebrating. Connie started Sunday school and the first year at Christmas program I remember her little poem, yet- so, it goes: ‘Presents large and presents small But this is the best gift of all (she held up her doll).’ ~Roy Falk Reading this brought back the memory of my Christmas porcelain dolls – a Christmas memory that is still one of my favorites. I like to imagine the magic my grandmother must have felt when she opened up the doll she was given at Christmas when she was young. Was it the same kind of magic she gave to me each and every Christmas when I was a child? I’d like to think so. To my readers: I hope you had a very Merry Christmas. A Christmas that was filled with tradition, loved ones, and fond memories. Do you have any special Christmas memories? I would love to read about them if you would be so kind as to share them in the comment section below. Wishing you a Happy New Year! `Erin
Community: The Fellowship of the 1920’s to the Ghost Towns of Today
This period between 1923 and the early thirties seems to me was the end of a rich community fellowship, the parties, and the ball teams of which each community had one… It was the end too of meetings at Larson’s Hall and these neighborhood times have never come back. ~ Roy Falk, 1977 Only recently has the idea of community piqued my interest. Why? Because before now, I didn’t know what I was missing. I didn’t know what a true community was. For the past year I have studied my great-grandfather’s (Roy Falk) memoirs in great depth. His words, as he reflects on his childhood, have started to stir up a sort of longing inside of me. A longing for “de good old days”. A longing for the way that neighbors came together in times of need, for the relationships that were forged between community members at the local creamery, for the way children gathered en masse to play games, and for the free time that was available to build a rich community fellowship. My family and I are surrounded by thousands of people here in the suburbs, but you wouldn’t know this by taking a walk through our neighborhood on a typical day. No one is outside enjoying the perfectly manicured lawns, the giant playground sits empty – desperate for screaming children full of energy, and the walking trails are largely unused and quiet, which makes for wonderful wildlife viewing around the many ponds, but is not so great for meeting friends. I know that there is a simple answer for why this is – times have changed. What is a community? Community, as described by doctors David M. Chavis & Kien Lee, is about people. A community is not a school, a church, or a neighborhood – these are just places. It’s not the exchange of information over the World Wide Web – it’s much more than this. Community is: …both a feeling and a set of relationships among people. People form and maintain communities to meet common needs. Members of a community have a sense of trust, belonging, safety, and caring for each other. They have an individual and collective sense that they can, as part of that community, influence their environments and each other. That treasured feeling of community comes from shared experiences and a sense of—not necessarily the actual experience of—shared history. As a result, people know who is and isn’t part of their community. This feeling is fundamental to human existence. “De Good Old Days” As I read my great-grandfather’s memoirs, examples of community are woven throughout. I wonder if he realized this. I imagine he did. Group Gatherings Great-Grandpa shared many stories where neighbors gathered together. For example: The young people built a dance platform in the woods 1/4 mile from our house on the farm Pete [my great-grandfather’s uncle] had just sold. Pete and Betsy [Pete’s wife] both loved to dance… [August Helberg] was a violin player and played for the dances held in the woods where the young people had built the platform (no roof or walls). If it didn’t rain they had dances every Saturday night. We could plainly hear the violin at our farm if we listened. and Stanly Store was always an honest store, well-liked by the community. Trade during the time the creamery was running was heavy. The young fellows of the neighborhood would meet there any night to have a pleasant evening and I spent many evenings there. The store and garage and barn are all gone now, not a trace of it is left in 1975. People gathered together to enjoy the company of others, build relationships, exchange stories, and explore common interests. But, these weren’t the only signs of a healthy community. Neighbors offering help in times of need was also an important part of my great-grandfather’s life. In Times of Need Great-Grandpa reminisced about the loving relationship between his mother and one of her best friends: Here there lived a cantankerous old man called, or rather nicknamed, Rovel (Swedish) Warble Nelson on account of the peculiar way he talked. His wife and mother to the children was a great friend of my mothers and much respected in the community. She died around 1909 and as my mother had been with her much during her sickness, she had told whoever was home with Mrs. Nelson when she died should pull a curtain shade on a certain window. So, as we watched we saw the shade pulled. There was no telephone yet so this was just a way of communication. About a teacher who was welcomed into his home as she began her career in the local one-room school house: In 1915 or 1916, an Irish girl by the name of Molly Gilmore came to live with us and teach our school. She was a good teacher and much respected and loved by her pupils of which I was one. One thing she did that was unusual was she put up a hurdle for us in the school aisle using a long broom handle for a bar. This we could adjust by adding or taking away books. She taught us the high jump and some of us became proficient in this sport. I jumped six feet later on because I used to jump fences – sometimes to my sorrow! Even when a new family moved into the town, poor and in desperate need of help, the community did all that they could: The children were too young [there were five total]. They were desperately poor as they produced almost nothing to sell. The neighbors would chip in and provide help. My father took the sleigh and horses and collected a lot of flour, beans, spuds, groceries, rutabagas, etc., which was a great help… All the children of this family were successful after they left this home. Neighbors also helped out on the farm: Ole was a surgeon of no mean merit – he would come and castrate
A 1914 Ford Model T – Another Unbelievable Connection
Cornerstone Last April I decided to dive into writing – something I’ve wanted to do for years, but the time wasn’t right until now. My kids are now old enough to be more independent, so I have an hour here and there for myself. Yes, it’s great! When I first started writing I shared a story about my parents buying the family farm. The way my parents acquired the farm, and the connections they discovered still amaze me and give me the chills when I think about it. We continue to uncover stories and discover connections, thanks to my great-grandfather’s (Roy Falk) memoirs. Because of this, life on the farm has turned into a cornerstone of my writing. Just recently, another unbelievable connection was made when a visitor spotted a story about my great-grandfather’s 1914 Ford Model T. Farm Displays Many people have toured the farm in the past few years. Visitors are transported approximately 100 years back in time as they view displays that contain antique objects, old pictures, and informative plaques throughout the property. For example: The display below contains a photograph of the Falk children digging potatoes (my great-grandfather is in the center), a direct quote from my great-grandfather’s memoir, and an old potato bucket. These artifacts are hung in the old granary that was built by my family in 1919. This particular display is about potato farming, which was one of the main sources of income for the Falk family. My great-grandfather wrote in his memoir: When I was 15 years old, my father gave me two acres of potatoes in the spring as my wages for my summers work. As it turned out, by fall, my two acres of spuds did very well. I remember they were a variety called Kings, a high-producing red potato. Potatoes were high-priced that fall and I received $350.00 for my summer wages. Well, being 15 years of age, I wanted a car and bought a 1914 Model T with brass lamps, radiator shell, etc. Beautiful! I took this car out without any instruction the first time I drove it. Florence [sister] was the only one who dared ride with me, and I drove it to Gearge Widells in South Pine Lake and back without mishap. Today, in 1977, that Model T would be worth quite a bit of cash. This story has filled my mother with determination to find a 1914 Ford Model T that can be displayed at the farm. I’m sure my father is just thrilled at this prospect as he has always wanted a classic car. I know my son is. He has had a fascination with the Model T since he was a tiny tot of four-years old. Coincidence? A 1914 Ford Model T in Sweden “You’ll never believe what happened when the Swedes were here” The tone in my mother’s voice told me that I was in for another chill-inducing connection It was Thursday, August 17th, 2017, and a group of 80 visitors (many from Sweden) had come to tour the farm. During one of the tours, a distant relative from Sweden swiftly walked up to my mother and took out his cell phone. “That story about forking up potatoes?” he said excitedly. “I have a picture to show you. I have that same car in Sweden – a 1914 Model T Ford!” My mother looked at his cell phone and there it was, a 1914 Ford Model T. She looked up at him incredulously and exclaimed “You wouldn’t believe it, but connections like this have been happening weekly here on the farm.” He replied, “When you and your husband come to visit us in Sweden in a couple of years, I will bring you on a ride in my 1914 Model T Ford.” How is it that a distant relative from Sweden has a 1914 Ford Model T? The same year, make, and model that my great-grandfather bought when he was 15-years old? Everything happens for a reason. Chills. Another connection made. My parents are now looking forward to taking a ride in the 1914 Ford Model T when they visit relatives in Sweden for the next reunion in two years. I wonder “How many more connections will be made in the future?” Only time will tell.
Weaving a Story: A Journal, a Loom, and a Corn Cob Pipe
Some years, in the spring of the year, Mama would set up the carpet weave in the upstairs of the granary. This setting up of the weave took help, so Aunt Lizzie Falk would come out to help. Aunt Lizzie smoked a corn cob pipe and she stayed with us until the setting up of the old loom was finished. Mama would spend whatever time she could spare weaving pretty carpet, using the many balls of carpet material she had prepared during the winter. -Roy Falk Westfalcon Farm has revealed many hidden treasures since my parents bought the family farm in the spring of 2013. Thanks to the well-kept journal of my great-grandfather, Roy Falk, we have been able to link the stories in his journals to treasures around the farm. One such treasure was my great-great-grandmother’s (Christine West Falk) weaving area that was left untouched in the upstairs of the granary. Mama The loom, with wood worn smooth by the years of use by hard-working hands, is still attached to the old log beams that hold up the the granary. The Old Loom Old wooden bobbins sit perched upon hand-forged nails. Pencil markings adorn the granary walls that whisper the secrets of the loom patterns used, the number of yards consumed, and the quantity of rugs woven. When I look at the granary, I often imagine my great-great-grandmother putting the old loom to use up on that second floor. Granary I imagine her hands working diligently with the homemade rug material. Spending the little free-time that she did have weaving rugs for her family, and perhaps making a few dollars by selling the extras to neighbors. When I stand in the granary, nostalgia washes over me as I see the special treasures that have been left for our family to find. I feel the worn surfaces of the old loom, I picture my great-great-grandmother placing the bobbins on the nails as she weaves, and I read and re-read the writing on the walls. The smell in the granary is warm. A combination of old wood and the grains that used to fill the granary. I wonder, is there still a hint of smoke from Aunt Lizzie’s corn cob pipe?
Sweet Clover, Summer Memories, and a Wildflower Bouquet
As the kids and I took a walk down our road to the lake, the intoxicating smell of sweet clover, vanilla mixed with fresh-cut hay, permeated the air. Late June in Minnesota is when the summer wildflowers awaken and adorn the sides of the roads, prairies, and edges of our 10,000+ lakes. On this particular day, my daughter started collecting wildflowers on the side of the road as we walked toward the lake. “Mom, I’m going to make you the most beautiful wildflower bouquet today.” As my daughter waded through the tall grass and wildflowers, she gathered: Black-eyed Susans, Prairie Fleabane, Tufted Vetch, Virginia Waterleaf, Yellow and White Sweet Clover, Ox-eye Daisies, Queen Anne’s Lace, and Red Clover. Once we arrived at the lake, my son picked an exquisite American White Water Lily, also known as the Fragrant Water Lily, to add to the bouquet. Before long we had a beautiful wildflower bouquet of all different colors, textures, and scents waiting to adorn our kitchen table. My family has been picking wildflowers along the roadside on our walks for year. One thing that always comes to mind, when reminiscing of these ventures, is the smell of sweet clover. In fact, my children have learned to identify sweet clover when it emerges from the soil in the early spring. First, there is excitement at finding the plant itself, but then a serious race ensues to see who can pick and smell the first sweet clover leaves of the year. There is nothing like the smell of sweet clover, especially on a warm summer day like today. Years ago, as a teenager, I remember helping my boyfriend (who is now my husband) with his summer lawn mowing jobs. There was this particular spot in a yard that smelled especially sweet every time we would mow. Determined to identify the plant, I would stop and search high and low for the plant that smelled so sweet. Finally I found a plant that appeared to be a type of clover (three finely-toothed leaflets). After my job, I remember going home and telling my mother about this clover plant that had the most wonderful smell. She said “Oh, sweet clover! That was your great-grandpa’s favorite smell as well.” Little did my mother know, that my great-grandfather had actually written a journal entry about his memories of clover. What I remember was that mother laid me in the shade at the edge of the field and cocked the hay as my father raked it. The smell of the Red Clover drying and the humming of the bees comes back vividly now as I write of this happening. ~Roy Falk My mother’s aunt (who typed up my great-grandfather, Roy Falk’s, journals) noted how incredible my great-grandfather’s memory must have been to remember incidents that happened before he could even sit up on his own. I was also surprised, but I know it’s not unheard of. In fact, I remember one incident that happened when I was a baby in a walker. I was at a family friend’s house, and as I was wheeling around, the dog who lived at that house accidentally pushed me down the stairs in my walker. I was amazingly unharmed, but the memory of tumbling down those stairs and being terrified is still sharp in my mind. The sweet smell of the Red Clover and the buzzing of the bees must have had quite an impact on Great-Grandpa for him to recall this memory so well. After reading Great-Grandpa’s journal entry, I was interested to see if there was a purpose of the clover being in the hay field. According the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources (DNR), clover was brought over to the United States from Europe in the 1600’s. It was used as a forage crop (to feed livestock) and as a cover crop (where it is used to keep weeds down and enrich the soil). Clover plants have very long tap roots that extend several feet below the top soil. This tap root brings nutrients such as nitrogen up to the top soil, nourishing nearby shallow-rooted plants. I wish I could have been sitting next to the field with Great-Grandpa, listening to the bees and smelling the hay and clover as it dried in the fields. As I’m writing this, my husband and children are imploring me to accompany them on our daily walk. I think I’m ready to go out and smell the sweet clover again after sharing this story. I urge you to make your way outside and embark on a journey to look for some summer wildflowers. You may just come home with a beautiful bouquet, and if you’re lucky, you’ll catch the scent of vanilla and fresh-cut hay drifting the air.
If Only The Walls Could Talk, What Would They Say?
If only the walls could talk, what would they say? In my introductory post of Westfalcon Farm I mentioned that one of the things that had an impact on my mother the first time she saw the old family farm was the many etchings on the bricks inside the old separator room in the barn. Well, let’s just say that since that first trip up to the farm years ago, the family has discovered many more etchings, drawings, names, dates and even pictures, not only inside of the separator room in the barn, but throughout the barn, and even inside the granary. A quick note before going on about the writing on the walls: My great-grandfather, Roy Falk, wrote in his journal: In 1917, father hired a man by the name of Gust Sundberg to build him a new barn. I did a lot of work on that barn, as I was 14 years old that summer, so I helped on all work that I could, such as cement work, laying upper floor, and shingling with wood shingles. Now, the family noticed something a little different about the barn that the Falk family had built. Even though the entire exterior was wood siding, the inner walls were lined with brick. The brick is where most of the family names and dates are etched. Why brick on the interior? Again, in my great-grandfather’s journal we found: My grandfather evidently knew the brick trade as he built some kind of brick kiln and manufactured brick, taking the clay in a hill on the eastern side of his land. We wonder if the brick that was used was made by my great-great-great-grandfather. If so, were they installed to help support the barn, or maybe used for insulation? If only the walls could talk. Either way, the bricks have played an important part in teaching our family about our family history with all of the names, dates, and words we have found. Along with my great-grandfather’s journals, we have a very detailed history, indeed! The bricks in the barn have almost every family member’s name (those that have lived on the farm) etched into them, beginning with my great-great-grandfather, August Falk. As you can see below, August etched his initials into the brick. This is the only place throughout the farm that we have found August’s name or initials. However, my great-grandfather, Roy Falk, made his mark in many places throughout the barn and the granary. Many treasures have been found in the barn such as the brick with the year 1917 penciled onto it, which is the year the barn was built. We even found bricks that gave us information such as what must have been a big spring snow date on April 2, 1920,… …the day the family got new drinking cups (January 3, 1919),… …and the day the family cat must have taken ill (“Puss got sick, Mar. 2, 1920”.) Some of my favorite writing happened on the wood walls of the granary. For instance, I love this simple drawing of a horse. Many people in my family have been horse-lovers so this drawing made perfect sense (get ready for some fun horse stories in the future): Another area which turned out to be pretty special was in the upstairs of the granary. As soon as we climbed the stairs for the first time, we saw the name Jack Dempsey (American professional boxer who reigned as the world heavyweight champion from 1919 to 1926) written in large cursive letters on the wall. Now, my great-grandfather was a wood carver, and before he died, he told my mother’s aunt that he wanted my mom to have the boxers he carved. Of course, this was long before my parents even knew about the family farm. I wonder if my great-grandfather somehow knew that his pieces of art would have a special home with Mom. A home that my great-grandfather grew up in and treasured. The boxers are displayed on a shelf next to Jack Dempsey’s name. My mother has commented to me that she can just imagine her grandfather, Roy, and his brother, Russel, having lively boxing matches in the upstairs of that granary. If only the walls could talk. I’ll leave you with a little poem that this post inspired. A poem? Me? I know, I’m not a poet, but for some reason I felt the need to write one today. So here it goes: If Only The Walls Could Talk By: Erin Burton There is a farm in Cambridge, just east of town. A barn and a granary that refuse to fall down. Where writing, etching, and pictures abound. So happy my family has finally found. If only the walls could talk, what would they say? Would they tell of a time of happier days? They would tell of the crops that made the family proud. And about the boys wrestling in the granary as they laughed aloud. Would they tell us about Mama who milked the cows every day? Or, about the baby that the horse watched over in a manger of hay? They would tell of the newborn lamb that was frozen one cold, winter night, But, came back to life after being warmed by the light. And about Mama and her loom, yes, she worked so hard. And Pa who worked so very diligently in the yard. Would they tell about laughter, hope, fears, and tears? All things were possible when family was near. These walls are old, but not ready to fall down. They have too many stories to tell to whoever is around. They cannot talk but give us a glimpse, Into the lives of our loved ones who once did live.
The Farm: Moving Back To Their Roots
Have you ever had one of those “everything happens for a reason” moments that gave you the chills? Well, I have a story to share with you that still gives me the chills, and I truly believe that everything that happened in this story, happened for a reason. Now, this is the introductory post to the family farm. This story really sets the stage for future posts, so I’m not going to leave anything out of this important beginning. I hope you enjoy the story! The Beginning In the year 2000, my mother had an inkling to start looking into her family’s genealogy. She simply wanted to know where her ancestors came from and where they settled. Many hours were spent combing the internet, looking through books and articles at various museums and libraries, and ultimately, my parents flew off to Sweden to see the homeland, visit new-found relatives, and of course pick through the records that are so diligently kept in the Swedish archives. Somewhere along Mom’s research trail, she came across an old plat drawing that showed a piece of land that her great, great grandparents, Lars and Katarina West, had homesteaded (December 5, 1884) when they emigrated from Västanå, Sweden. This homestead ended up staying in the family for three generations. Lars and Katarina gave the farm to their daughter, Christine Selena and her husband August Falk on the premise that they would allow Katarina to live the rest of her life with them. Along with taking care of Katarina, August and Christine went on to raise their family on this homestead. This land happened to be about 40 miles from where my parents were currently living in Minnesota. Not long after finding the old plat, Mom was able to find an address that was currently listed as being on the property. Bud answered the phone when my mom called and he and his wife, Elvera, graciously welcomed my family to come up and see the farm. A few weeks later, my mom and several other members of the Falk family went to visit the farm for the first time (2009). When my mom arrived at the farm with the family, they were welcomed by a long, pine tree-lined driveway that lead to a beautiful old farm, which included a giant windmill, a pole barn, an old wooden corn crib, a couple of metal corn cribs, an old white barn, a white granary that was as cute as a button, and a little brown farmhouse. Bud set my mom and the rest of the Falk clan free on the property so they could explore the grounds. I remember my mom telling me two particular things that really had an impact on her the first time she saw the farm: the first was that she found out that the barn had been built by her family in 1917 and was still in great shape; and the second was that many of the West and Falk names (along with the dates) had been etched into the old bricks on the barn inside the separator room (see Figure 1). Many of the names were etched in the early 1900’s. An incredible surprise! Now, there is one thing I remember my mom always saying to me when I was growing up: “I love old barns, and I could see myself living on a farm if I ever find one with an old barn in good shape.” My parents went on to visit the farm two more times in the next few years. After the second visit my mom was fairly certain that if the farm ever went up for sale that she would like to buy it. A couple of weeks after the second visit, my mom asked my dad if he would be willing to move up to the farm if it should go up for sale. I can’t imagine how Dad’s face must have lit up at that moment. My dad has been dreaming of land, barns, and a workshop for years. Let’s just say that they made the call to Bud and his wife, Elvera, right away to tell them about their interest in the farm if Bud and Elvera should want to sell. Fast-forward about five years from the first time my mom visited the farm, and here is where that “everything happens for a reason” moment occurs. Everything Happens For A Reason Both of my parents had recently retired from their careers and had decided to fill much of their time with volunteering in state and national parks, wildlife refuges, and in any other location they could find where nature abounded. This particular year, they were working in a visitor center, completing maintenance projects, and teaching classes about butterflies to elementary-age children at the Santa Ana National Wildlife Refuge in Alamo, TX. They volunteered there for three months before they planned to slowly make their way back home visiting other parks along the way. Well, they ended up needing to come home early, so they decided to drive home in two days instead of the one-to-two weeks they had previously planned. Mom and Dad arrived home at about three o’clock in the morning on Sunday, March 23, 2014. The next day, Mom and Dad received a phone call from Bud. He was ready to sell the farm. Soon after the phone call, Mom called me and told me about the phone call from Bud. I couldn’t quite tell if she was still tired from her long car ride back from TX, or if she was in disbelief about receiving a call about the farm going up for sale. I’m sure it was a little of both, but Mom told me that she really felt that they were supposed to be back from TX to get that phone call. God works in mysterious ways. Everything happens for a reason. Early the following week, Mom and Dad drove up to the farm to meet with Bud, and to