The trip from Des Moines to Decorah usually takes about 3 1/2 hours. On Friday, I lingered along county roads on the way to attend my uncle's funeral, stopping to capture these photos. There are many modern, thriving farms, but increasingly I see more old farms whose buildings are dilapidated or decaying. These are farms long ago abandoned. Once useful barns, bins and even houses are falling prey to the elements, tangled in overgrown vines. What stories do these ancient structures hold? What animals or crops were sheltered here? Did families live and love on this land? Did children, now grown with grandchildren and great-grandchildren of their own, play in these yards?
It seems everywhere I turn I am reminded of the brevity of life - in my work, in the changing of the seasons, in friends and family who have gone before us, and in the demise of these farms. For several years I raced by them on my way to something I was already late for. Not this time. This time I stopped, looked, soaked in the symbolism of these aged buildings. The sky was grey; the sun hidden behind thick clouds. It was cold and windy. Yet there was something rich and warm about these quiet places. I could almost hear the cries of "come boss!" and the ring of the dinner bell to call in the field workers. I could almost smell baking bread and the scent of wringer-washed sheets hanging on the line.
These photos are a fitting tribute to my uncle, Ted, who loved the land and the harvest it provided, and understood that successful farming was a communal effort. He was kind to me when I was learning to drive the baler tractor, and for that I am grateful.
