Here's to the Farmer

“Talk about an uphill battle…”

Today we traveled to the Indiana State House to celebrate 100 years (technically 2020 was our year, but, you know… the world…) … 103 years of Meyer Farms.

I feel so unworthy to be at the forefront of this special Hoosier Homestead Award and this special day. I think about what my ancestors did and had to endure and it makes me so proud, but also feel so sickly spoiled.

I think about the stories… and wonder about all the forgotten ones.

My great great grandmother, Franciska, was the daughter of a large land owner and farmer in Holland. Arranged by her parents, she was to marry a highly ranked Army General, but she was madly in love with her father’s head farm hand.

She was 22 and the farm hand was 31. The story goes that she mentioned her feelings for this farm hand to her father, but he dismissed the idea as he had already promised the military man her hand. Weeks before her wedding and by the cover of night, she fled the large comfortable family farm and headed to America with that farm hand, Johann Meyer, my great great grandfather, the man she deeply loved. I can’t help but think of them today. Foolishly in love or following their hearts? Leaving a career where besides the owner, you are top dog and leaving the possibility of a pretty easy life being the daughter of a wealthy land owner and a wife of an established military general? For what? Love? Why? For a future you dream about? A far off promised land? The “American Dream?”

Yes. Yes a hundred thousand times.

I think of the other stories too… of how my other great great grandfather was coming home from town when he saw smoke coming from where he thought his home was on Pipe Creek. He whipped his horses to go faster, but by the time he got there, his house was fully engulfed in flames.

One of his youngest children hid under the bed as the home burned. His wife went back in, but failed in her attempt to get her baby out. After going through the charred home, the small child - a four year old girl - was indeed found under the burned bed. And mama succumbed to her injuries a few hours later, leaving the family homeless and the children motherless. My great great grandfather went on to remarry and have two more children with his new wife- the youngest would be my great grandma, Louise.

** Above is the same picture, with John, the son of the runaways, on the left and Louise, the youngest daughter of the man who lost his first wife to the fire. They were in the same class at St. Mary's School.**

And she would meet and fall in love and marry the son, John, of the two runaway lovers who fled Holland in the night with only what their arms could carry.

** Above is John and Louise with their three children. Their only son and youngest is in the middle. **

And then Louise and John would have a son, Vic, who would one day meet the cutest redhead, Marie, at a Liberty Park Independence Day dance. But just as the sparks of love flew, Vic would be called to war. And they would fall in love in letter after letter after letter. Hers written from her maid’s room at the Romweber Estate on Walnut Street and his from various states across our country.

** Above is the actual war letters Vic and Marie, my dad's mom and dad, wrote to each other - along with a picture they took while he was in the service.**

Vic returned home to Marie and to the farm where they would raise their 13 children, the tenth child being my dad, named John - after his grandpa, the son of the runaway couple. And my dad had me and my brother, John.

** Above is the farm sometime likely in the 1960's - around the time my dad, John, was born. **

“Raising a son, raising a daughter. They gather ‘round the table, send it up to the Father. Somehow they get closer when times get harder.”

I can’t help but think that so much risk, so much suffering, so much trouble, so much discomfort, so much work and worry and stress and tears and sweat had to occur to get to where we are.

So much love - for God, for family, for the future - had to be so unfailing and so instilled within their souls.

I can’t help but think of all the friends and neighbors. The story of the family who gave the young eloped couple a little money just as they were about to go their separate ways after docking in America. The neighbors who brought the burned mama into their home to die. The friends they made in the literal trenches of war. The rebuilding of St. Mary’s church, the droughts, the flooding, the coming together with open arms and without conditions. People who genuinely put good into the world and didn’t expect anything in return. A time and a place where a handshake meant a hell of a lot.

** Above left is some flooding we experienced in the early 1990s when I was a child. Above right is a picture of how dad milked before the 1991 barn fire along with a few pictures from the fire. The fire took many buildings on that hot July afternoon, but most notably the barn which is pictured above and in the next picture below. **

It all feels so distant. Yet it all feels so close. It was on this sacred ground that they build homes and barns. Within those walls, reprimanding and jokes, meals and spills, sickness and good news in a letter, prayers and tears and dancing.

Did they fall fast asleep with blisters on their hands and sunburn on their ears after a long days work in the bedroom that was once mine? Did they say the same prayer before meal as we do today? Did Johann ever lean against a porch post in the evening and listen to the rain drum the metal roofs as he lit his pipe, never speaking his words aloud, but thanking God the rain finally fell? Did Louisa ever hear her mama say that though they didn’t have much they had it all? Did John bury the family’s beloved dog in the backyard like my dad did? Did Franciska nurse her baby in the quiet dark to her soft hum of “Amazing Grace” like I did?

Though we seemingly lived in different worlds, can we really be so far apart? Or is their something that not even the passage of time can erase?

** Above is a picture of the homestead. How so much has changed... We believe it to be the late1970s based on the two trucks in the driveway.**

They endured it all. And we got a plaque. A beautiful one and a grand gesture. And dad and Allen are in the process of constructing a stand for it in the front yard for all to see. The pomp and warm hospitality of the Statehouse and the signage seems so silly. Not enough and too much in the same breath.

** Above left is a photo taken while my oldest daughter Emmy went for her first wheat combine ride in 2016. Above right is a picture of my dad, John (furthest left in the image), and his brothers, Roy (middle of image), and Gary (on the tractor) in the summer of 2017. **

I don’t get back to the back pasture much. Where you can’t see any power lines or hear any road traffic or see any other homesteads. The creek babbles and wind blows the tall grass. And it’s there, in a deep clean breath, I wonder if it’s us - me - who they thought of when they made hard choices to establish a place for their family for years to come.

With a smile on my face, pride in my heart, and maybe a tear in my eye, I thank them. With every fiber of my being - stitched together by them essentially - I thank them over and over. I’m here because they were brave enough and strong enough. Because they loved. Because they kept the faith. Because they chose life and they chose to rise and meet each day, I get to live. What a powerful testament. When we gather at the circle in the sky, I do hope they reach for my hand as I know I will be reaching for theirs. (And, oh the stories! You know I’ll hang on to every word.)