Today, we had the pleasure of visiting a dear friend of my wife’s family. She is an older member of the community, and it just felt right to take time out of our trip to stop by and visit. She is a wonderful person who is the matriarch of a large family – 7 children, 15 grandchildren, and 18 great-grandchildren. She still lives on the farm that she and her husband have had for more than 60 years.
As we drove up the driveway, we could see rows of corn in multiple field waving in the breeze. There were so many stalks that you could not see the end. The old farmhouse stood to the left of the drive with the barn straight ahead and the silo, a strong, silent sentry, standing to the right of the barn. At first sight, one would think that Norman Rockwell could visit and come away with a spectacular painting.
We stepped out of the car to silence. Everything was quiet and the wind had settled for the moment. No sound could be heard. Finally, as the breeze kicked back in, a lone bark came from the back of the house. Standing in the back entryway stood an old dog. The gray of his muzzle, the slow, careful step, the one eye no longer seeing all gave away that this brave defender of the house had been on duty for a number or years. Yet there he stood, ready to give his all to protect the occupants of the home. 
We went in and said our hellos and started listening to my wife and the family catch up. This was not something a 9-year-old likes to do. Normally, our daughter would endure the conversation and wait patiently for us to say good-bye and move on. However, this was not the first such conversation in our travels this week. Not only that, but this was a farm and a farm needs to be explored. She waited for a break in the conversation to ask permission to sleuth around. Once granted, she grabbed my hand and we were off.
This was not the first visit to this farm. We had been here a couple of times before. Her first visit included us watching several cows being loaded onto a truck to go to auction. I reminded her of where the truck had stood and how the cows were sent up the ramp into the trailer of the truck. She tried to remember, but nothing popped in her head. So, we walked around.
Since the passing of the patriarch, or possibly just prior, the cows had all been sold off. The pigs that my wife remembers feeding as a child no longer fill the barn. There is no livestock save for two cats of which to speak. We walked to the first buildings.
We stood in the building. It was an odd mix of new and old. The building itself had obviously seen better days. Inside, we found new (or what looked like new), large farm equipment. We looked at it and talked about what it must be like to drive the different pieces through the fields. As we pondered the work needed to run a farm, the wind picked up just a bit. We could now hear it cutting through the building and finding crevices in which to exit. A panel on the roof vibrated ever so slightly. It banged softly, but enough for us to hear it and look up. The building looked tired.
We moved out to the corral area. We looked up at the tall silo still so strong and sturdy. Our daughter commented on how the passing clouds made it look like the silo was ready to topple over. Once we turned out gaze from the skies, one could see that this structure looked as if it had another 60 years plus to go. However, one could tell that the lonely giant would no longer be used as a store house for anything but dust and cobwebs.
Our daughter’s attention moved to the barn. The barn called out to her as the wind moved one of its doors and banged it against the wall. The path leading up to the two tall doors was now completely covered in weeds and grass. Even with the lack of paint and missing pieces here and there, we could imagine this home for livestock back in the days. We could see the doors much being opened almost with as much fanfare as the doors of the Wizard’s castle in Oz. But alas, the doors no longer moved. We peeked in a small opening to see where hay used to be stacked to the ceiling. Little remnants scattered here and there. Now instead of large animals weighing thousands of pounds, two small cats sat in the middle of room staring at the strangers who were invading their peace and quiet.
We moved around the rest of the buildings seeing much of the same. All the while a feeling of morose falling over me. At one time, this farm was bustling. It was full of life. Now it sat silent almost waiting, wanting to be brought back to those days. It is still a farm that grows crops. It still provides, but it is not what it once was.
At first, I was going to equate this farm to how we treat the older generation in our society. People who want to contribute, but are just pushed aside to fall apart and become silent. However, this is just about our observations today. Our daughter and I walked the farm. We talked about what it was and what it is. We felt a sadness for the old place. We talked about how things change and what once was, isn’t anymore. 
In the end, we finished back in front of the doors of the barn. We looked for the cats, but they were not willing to come out and play. The wind moved the corn, the building creaked and groaned, the silo stood silent. We turned slowly to walk back to the house and the conversation within. A bark, one that you could tell was not as scary as it might have been years ago, greeted us. We closed the door behind us as we entered the house, and left the old barn alone again. We went back to the warmth of the visit and the stories of old.
