True Farmers

Ode to True Farmers

I was a fortunate young boy growing up. I came from solidly Scottish and Irish stock. My paternal great-grand father came to America from Ireland in the early 1900’s. The Armstrongs, my maternal lineage, came from Scotland to Virginia in 1690. The family that I knew well as a boy was settled in the counties of Shelby and Bullitt in Kentucky. Cheerful, hardworking folks all.

Many of my family were farmers of a sort when I was growing up. Farmers... not like today’s agri-giant mini-corporations, with tractors that look more suited for armored assaults on fortified enemy compounds than for living off the land. The tractors I was accustomed to had headlights and grilles that made them look almost friendly. The old Ford 8N with it’s brush guard exhibited a happy demeanor. Simply called the 8N, 9N, the H or D, the tractors of old were trusted helpers that were around for decades.

Some equipment had names like Sadie and Jack, they were the mules my great-grandpa Armstrong used until I was nearly a teenager. I remember planting potatoes with him as a toddler listening to “gee” and “haw, get up Jack…" The aroma of fresh turned soil wafted through the spring air as the powerful pair, one brown one white, pulled us along. With a snort and a shake of the head they grabbed the earth with their hooves and muscled their way across the field. My eyes welled with tears when old Sadie died. She was so much more than equipment. She was a part of the family. Her collar and hames hang on the wall of my den today as a reminder of farming long ago.

I grew up around back breaking, bone tired, year round, chickens in the yard, hams in the smoke house, hardscrabble farmers. My dads brothers were cattle or dairy farmers. I used to love to go to their dairy barns. I loved the smell of silage and hay. The sounds of the gentle mooing of the cattle as my uncles and cousins would call them by name and place them in their designated spots for milking. Milk never tasted better than when it came straight out of the cooler in the parlor. Rich, creamy and wholesome. It was work 24 hours a day 365 days a year.

My great-grandpa Willie Armstrong drove his cattle from Washington County to the present farms locations. Forty five miles of hills to climb, creeks to ford, dirt roads , and sweat. I would have given anything to have been on that drive (genetically I was on my way, I was just a few decades late). I remember the giant wood fired cook stove where a piece of sausage and a biscuit was waitin every time you passed by. The old house was originally a log cabin. The old logs remain under asphalt covering to this day. I have many old blacksmith tools, some I use often, some are for display. Farms distant from towns had to be prepared to fix any broken thing on their own... or wait for days to have it repaired. Every time I use the big giant black vise in the shop I feel the hands of my forefathers gripping the handle.

Sometimes there was more family than a farm could support and “side work” had to be done to help keep the farm in cash. Carpentry, saw milling, sewing or a factory job would help supplement. Now farming is more and more a rich mans game. According to the USDA , since 1900 the number of farms has fallen 63%, while the numbers of acreage per farm has increased by 67%. The big guys are swallowing the little guys. Sadly less than 2% of Americans live on farms today.

Yes, there are still small farms here and there. Self sustaining, full-menu producing farms with sheep, cattle, chickens, guineas and the like. The kind of farms that domesticated the west and made America, America. But they are fading away like frost before the sun, slowly and imperceptibly. I’m gonna miss them when they’re gone. We all will.