I was wearing a farm fresh skirt and blouse from enchanty when I stopped by the farm at Surface. I was inpecting the grain elevator waiting for the train to come pick up the harvest.
There’s something melancholy about a railroad track passing by the fields.It reminds me of the old family farm and the railroad running by. During the Great Depression, hobos would stop at the farm for food. They did not know that my grandfather had lost great wealth when his bank collapsed. They didn’t know he voluntarily assumed personal responsibility for the corporate liability – though his other three partners did not. He sold his electric company, lumber mill and other factories in order to make whole every depositor in the bank. They didn’t know that at age 65, he was started over from nothing on a $1/acre work-to-own dairy contract so that every bit of milk was pledged to the local creamery and not available for food for the family. Yet they came, and none were ever turned away unfed. They ate what the family ate – biscuits and gravy made from red dog flour.