My father realized he would not be able to pass on his farming lore to us while we lived in the city. When we visited his parents on their farm in West Concord, he did what he could — giving me the feel of riding a horse, for example, by lifting me up on Scott or Tim, and holding me in place while he coerced them to raise their feet, pretending to walk. But, other than these rare trips, his job left him little time to spend with us.
The streetcar men chose their work schedules by seniority, and as a relative newcomer, Daddy often had to settle for “two-piece” runs, where he worked the busy morning and afternoon rush hours, with time off during the middle of the day, when my brother John and I were in school. We were still sleeping, when he left in the pre-dawn hours — and often in bed when he came home in the evening. Frequent weekend and holiday runs gobbled up more hours we could have spent together. We rarely saw him.
If we lived in the country, we could all be together, but the possibility of a streetcar conductor purchasing a farm, seemed remote. As he searched for answers, his knowledge about Minnesota geography provided a workable plan. The Twin Cities are located at the northern edge of the Corn Belt, with its rich fertile soils, and mostly adequate rainfall. The farms there, like my father’s family homestead in West Concord, were generally prosperous, but expensive to either rent or buy. But to the north, soil quality declines, and the increasingly severe weather makes farming more risky — and the land more affordable.
Summer vacationers in popular northern Minnesota, may remember only postcard-scenic pine forests and lakes, but year-round residents know the area only grudgingly yields them a meager living. The notorious record-low temperatures from towns like Bemidji and International Falls that we hear about in the news, are reminders of the area’s punishing winters, where minus 35 degree days — without the wind-chill factor — are commonplace.
But looking at a number of scenarios, my father concluded that the brutal conditions might actually be an advantage in buying land to the north. A farm there could be within their financial reach. To have his dream, taking on the harsh weather seemed a manageable risk. They knew it would be impossible to begin full-scale farming at once. After making a down payment, they would not have much money left for livestock and equipment, but with careful planning, they could expand their operation in stages. There would be little spare cash, and life would not be easy, but a hard country life was better than enduring endless days in the noisy congested city, working a job he hated.
Mother had grown up in the city, and was unprepared in many ways, but she was willing to make the transition. In fact she welcomed the challenge. It seemed to be in her DNA — her Scandinavian genes — to tackle adversity. Her father struggled through many hardships while he saved up the money to establish his own bakery. One year he lived in a small shack for the entire winter, near Duluth, on the north shore of Lake Superior. Mother’s fierce independence and resolute will — perhaps her least popular traits with staff at the Orphanage — flowered during this adventure, and shaped her character for the rest of her life. Obviously the formal university training, including graduate work in Greek and Latin, offered precious little that would be useful.
As they talked and planned, the dream seemed increasingly workable. They began checking farm real estate listings in Minneapolis newspapers. In 1929 they saw an ad for a 160 acre farm near Park Rapids, about 200 miles north of the city (and only 30 miles from Bemidji) The seller, it said, would accept an urban home as a down payment. In addition to the acreage, the ad listed “a house, a barn, and other outbuildings”. Mortgage payments would be small enough, so they could start their farming operation gradually, while renting out land to neighboring farmers. There were about 60 acres of pine trees, which could be sold as timber for additional income, while they were getting established. It seemed like the perfect opportunity.
My parents quickly wrote to the agent listed, Mr. Prettyman, from Wadena, a small town, a few miles from the property. Not long after, he drove down to the Twin Cities to meet with them. I’m sure he had no actual pictures of the property, but described the land and outbuildings in glowing real estate jargon. When he left, Mr. Prettyman took the title to their home as the down payment, and we moved into a rented house in Minneapolis. Trusting and naive, my parents had disregarded a basic rule — see the property before buying it.
A year went by before any of us saw our newly-acquired farm. But finally, in the summer of 1931, we eagerly drove up to inspect our future homestead. John and I had heard nothing about the buildings, but had seen enough Midwestern farmhouses to know what to expect — a roomy two-story structure with white siding and a spacious front or side porch (or maybe both), probably a porch swing, and a big yard to play in.
But that was a typical house in the southern Corn Belt area.
Neither of my parents gave any hint about their feelings or personal reaction when we first saw the property, but John and I were certainly not prepared for the shocking reality of the buildings before us. The setting itself was picturesque, just as Mr. Prettyman had described — a clearing in a thick grove of pine trees near the road. But our “farmhouse” was a one-room shack about 15 feet square with a narrow lean-to addition along the back. The siding on the main part was weathered gray — with no trace of paint. No front porch. No swing. Tar paper covering the addition had torn away in many places, revealing gaps in the boards. Wall surfaces on both sections consisted of a single layer of mismatched wood, with peek-through spaces. On the inside we could see the vertical two-by-four joists.
The flooring was rough pine boards. A trap-door in the main room gave access to a short ladder, leading down to a small dug-out cellar. There was no foundation, just a rock at each corner, on which the building rested. The space underneath was open to the wind. Empty window-frames welcomed weather and insects, while mice and chipmunks scurried in and out of the gaping back doorway. This was to be our future shelter from summer storms and winter blizzards when we moved in the next year….
I’ve often thought that perhaps my parents never saw the building as it was, but only saw what it could be, once they had a chance to work their magic — like a potter may see a beautiful vase in a lump of clay. Patched up, painted, decorated inside, the grounds tamed and planted, it could be — well — quite attractive. They could enlarge the house with another addition, or maybe just use it temporarily while building a new home. My father built their house in Minneapolis — and a new one could be even nicer.
Early 1929, when they bought the property, was a time of prosperity. The stock market crash later that year, and the Great Depression that followed, were the (blissfully) unknown future. But despite desperate cheery propaganda to the contrary, prosperity was not just around the corner. My parent’s plans to enter farming, conceived in the heady days of the1920’s, would have to be realized in a new time — with an out-of-control economy in free-fall. But the darkening picture had at least one bright spot; there was talk of a loan program to aid farmers, and although no formal legislation was enacted, the prospect of future assistance encouraged my parents to proceed.
In the face of catastrophic unemployment, my father could not give up his job, which was our family’s sole source of income. We needed his earnings to develop the farm. They decided their only option was to have him continue working for the streetcar company in Minneapolis, while Mother, John (age 7) and I (age 9) lived on the farm, and began to establish our homestead. So the Greek scholar city girl would live in a remote cabin with us — and the country-boy farmer would work in the city — alone.