{"id":34,"date":"2013-02-26T06:30:00","date_gmt":"2013-02-26T13:30:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/69.195.124.95\/~redletu4\/last-day-on-the-farm\/"},"modified":"2013-02-26T06:30:00","modified_gmt":"2013-02-26T13:30:00","slug":"last-day-on-the-farm","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/davidrupert\/last-day-on-the-farm\/","title":{"rendered":"Last Day on the Farm"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<\/head>
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\nDo you ever think back to the times and places that are now nothing but fading memories and wonder? \u201cWhat could have been?\u201d<\/span>

<\/span>One of the more intriguing photos from my grandmother\u2019s collection is this one.<\/span>\n<\/div>\n
\nHandwritten is a date, 1936 and this caption. \u201cAs we left for California, a close up and the end of our N. Dak Ranch.\u201d \u00a0<\/i><\/span>

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\nThere are other photos that depict the life \u2014 and none of it looks easy.\u00a0<\/span>There are images of \u00a0weathered men stoically sitting on the backs of iron farm equipment.\u00a0<\/span>There were cattle in some pictures and goats in others. There\u2019s one with my dad as a teenager, herding about 50 turkeys.\u00a0<\/span>\n<\/div>\n
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1936 was a tough year to be a North Dakota farmer. They endured the most severe heat wave<\/a> in modern history, killing some 5,000 people nationwide and causing wide spread crop failure. And it came on the heels of a terrible winter, one of the coldest on record. It was the the hottest segment of the famous Dust Bowl<\/a>.<\/b> No rain. Endless heat. Crops withering. Animals dying.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\n<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cEnough,<\/b>\u201d he said. The tough\u00a0<\/span>Scandinavian\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0threw in the towel, sold everything and moved the family to\u00a0<\/span>California. No doubt he was\u00a0swayed by the promise of temperate conditions, ample work and a different lifestyle.\u00a0 \n

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They\u00a0<\/span>weren\u2019t<\/span>\u00a0alone. The Great Depression and the Dust Bowl pushed 1.3 million people to <\/span>Californiain the 1930\u2019s, as they were looking for a better life. Think <\/span>Grapes of Wrath.<\/a>\n<\/i>

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\nOne of the relics I have is the final bill of sale from that fateful day, when the farm was sold.<\/span>What was it like to leave the land you had nurtured, turning your back on it\u2019s crumbling clay forever?<\/i>\u00a0\n

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They headed to bustling California pulling a Ford coupe and all their possessions ambling \u00a0behind on 8 x 8 trailer. They landed in Stockton, CA<\/a>, located in the fertile San JoaquinValley.\u00a0\n

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\nI wonder what my Norwegian grandfather thought of the Spinach Riot<\/a> the year after they moved there? This was a famous labor dispute where farm workers and longshoremen, armed with clubs, battled 700 deputized citizens armed with short handled pickaxes for three hours in front of the massive Stockton cannery.\n

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<\/a>He \u2013 and others like him \u2013 were part of the problem. Too many migrants \u00a0from other parts of the country, not enough work. There was angst against Mexicans, Filipinos and Easterners.\u00a0<\/span>\n<\/p><\/div>\n

I\u2019m sure it was a hard life \u2014 scraping for work, competing with hundreds of others with the same hungry eyes and babies at home to feed.<\/span><\/div>\n
I wonder if he ever wanted to ditch the concrete and pavement jungle of the city and take his family back to the ranch?<\/i><\/span><\/div>\n
Did he cast his eye over his shoulder, thinking he\u00a0<\/span>didn\u2019t<\/span>\u00a0belong?<\/span><\/span><\/div>\n
Did he ever think about riding his horse into the endless horizon, the evening breeze at his back, the sound of the grain flowing back and forth?\u00a0<\/span><\/div>\n
Did he long for those quiet mornings, where the cows grunted their approval while he squirted the milk into the pail?<\/span><\/div>\n
I catch myself looking backwards sometimes. Places I\u2019ve lived. People I\u2019ve known. I remember those days of quiet peace and wonder what would have been.<\/i> But the dust pushed me West, the harsh winter drove me to where I am. And it is here where I prosper<\/b>, where I find my place again.<\/span><\/div>\n
And then I catch myself looking forward to a new home. It\u2019s a farm with streets of gold. The crops never fail there<\/b>. In a single moment, I\u2019ll heartily shake the hand of my grandad, meeting him for the very first time.\u00a0<\/span><\/div>\n
And I can hardly wait.\u00a0<\/span><\/div>\n\n\n\n
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\"Enhanced<\/a><\/div>\n
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Do you ever think back to the times and places that are now nothing but fading memories and wonder? \u201cWhat could have been?\u201dOne of the more intriguing photos from my grandmother\u2019s collection is this one. Handwritten is a date, 1936 and this caption. \u201cAs we left for California, a close up and the end of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2375,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-34","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\nLast Day on the Farm<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Do you ever think back to the times and places that are now nothing but fading memories and wonder? 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