Welcome to Watercolor Wednesday! Today I’m sharing a commissioned painting I recently completed for the Shugren family. The family is beginning an exciting adventure – they converted their family barn into a wedding and event venue. The beautiful red barn, built in the 1920’s, is a show-stopper. It sits in the middle of more than 100 green acres, and has been in the family since the day it was built. A serene, shallow pond is situated just west of the barn where lily pads and cattails grace the landscape. I was asked to incorporate both the barn and the pond into a watercolor painting. A painting the owners hope to use as a part of their new business logo. Shugren Barn and Pond Shugrens, I wish your family the best as you begin your new adventure with the Shugren Farm Wedding and Event Venue. For more information on the Shugren Farm: Shugren Farm Wedding and Event Venue.
Farm
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