Back to the Family Farm

Yesterday was a memorable day indeed.   Louise, Dad (Floyd) and I, along with dad's sister, started off our day going to church, a church that my dad grew in as a new believer in Christ, a congregation of folk that he poured his life into.   He was a contributing member for the first ten years of the church's life (1949-1959).   This is also the church I first heard the Good News of the Gospel as a pre-schooler, the place of my infant baptism and dedication.  St. Paul's Lutheran in Colville WA.   Dad met a fellow after the service that joined the church in 1966.   He claimed that in those early years of his own initial experience with the church, dad's name was regularly mentioned in endearing terms.  This older gentleman exclaimed, "I always wanted to meet you and thought I never would have the chance!"  Twenty five years later, wow.  We had a great time worshiping and the two congregations worshiping together in unity capped off the morning quite well.

I know that many families don't have opportunities to explore their roots successfully, so I am indeed grateful for what took place Sunday afternoon and evening.   Seven of us, including a cousin and an aunt visited two cemetaries, the old family farm, homes where three generations had lived for a time, and even saw the house in which my dad was born!
We heard stories galore.  Probably the most touching location for me was the old family farm.  Remember when hiking you would come along an old log cabin that had fallen down and you wondered who lived there and what kind of life they had experienced?  Since we were spending the day with local relatives, they directed us to the site of the old family farm.  We pulled off the road, walked up an old abandoned grassy two-tire-tracked road, and approached a dilapidated log cabin with its roof collapsed and a 20-foot cherry tree growing in the middle.  This wasn't just another old cabin, this was the house where my dad and his four younger sibling had lived for close to a decade.   Water was retrieved from the year-round creek that ran along side the property.   The large logs had been hand-sawn and axed flat.  We learned that it had originally been a small barn, retro-fitted complete with a living room, kitchen and bedrooms.   The outhouse was about twenty feet from the structure.  My dad told us where the old wood shed was, where the path had been down to the creek, and then we went exploring where the silo and "new" barn had been built.   We found the found of the silo about a hundred yards from the house.   The upward sloping property of perhaps 80 acres had two open fields with interspersed pine trees and shrubs.  Vista views of surrounding moutains were inspiring.  What a treat to come with the two surviving siblings who lived on that ranch, still known as the Dick Ranch!  My dad's three siblings were all born in that log cabin.  Their dad died in that log cabin and along with that death, a family era abruptly ended.  One brother and I mused about buying the property, now fallowed for decades, this former farm was where land met family history and the stories we grew up with.   I am thankful to God for this whole day, but especially for the visit to the family farm.  I will share some picture with you soon.   Kevin