Farm Sale ©

FARM SALE

By

Kalli Deschamps

*Notes on the essay: My husband was raised on a ranch in the Flathead Valley of Western Montana during the depression. Following our marriage we have ranched in a variety of ways since the 1950’s. The ranch discussed in the story was the remainder of a family homestead we purchased in 1972. There had been two sets of buildings; all destroyed. We bought the land, four apple trees and a rhubarb plant. We built a haven for our family, our horses, dogs, cats and our small herd of registered Gelbvieh cattle. We raised our family, our cattle and improved the land. In time, however, all things must end. This is the story of an ending.

        Saturday morning…8:AM. The mist of an early morning shower hit the bill of my Capriola cap as I crossed the alfalfa field to the vacant ranch buildings. Moisture rose in clouds from the damp ground and dropped a haze across the line of equipment parked along the fence in the horse pasture behind the barn. A dent here, a scratch there. They reminded me of a company of discarded soldiers come to attention for a last inspection. Three days earlier we had nosed the pieces from their sheds and moved them into position for careful viewing by prospective buyers. That day had been busy with no time for thought or reflection. We had made  our decision to retire…to have this sale…to leave the land. The first of many tears found its way down my cheek and landed at the corner of my mouth as I took a closer look at the New Holland swather. Now it was old. Not so in 1974. I had felt sorry for the bankrupt rancher who sold it to us. We had checked our own bank balance carefully before we paid the bill. Here it was! The first piece of self-propelled equipment we had ever owned. We had loaded it on a trailer and hauled it to the ranch. Tomorrow it would leave the Rafter “D” the same way. But…oh! How I remembered the years in-between. We were so proud of that swather. We had even carpeted the cab for quiet and dust control. I recalled the hours of shared pleasure spent riding in the cab with Ed. How we’d watched with fascination the green leafy stalks of our new alfalfa as they bent beneath the sickle and reappeared through the rollers of the conditioner in orderly rows of sweet-smelling forage.

         Twisting and turning through my mind like a frenzied whirlwind the memories came. There lay the thick windrows of drying hay. Weather permitting we would bale in three or four days. In the meantime we would man the pitchforks. Tall ones, short ones, three-pronged, four-pronged; take your pick. Put on your gloves and grab a fork. Our neighbors thought we were crazy as we opened the corners of every windrow in every field with a fork. “All that work and what for?” they would say. The reasons were several and practical. The baler could make a wider turn, be less apt to snap a tongue. We could pick a cleaner field with no need to make a second trip to bale those pesky corners. So we forked the hay.

         There were more nostalgics as my eye moved down the line. Gleaming red and yellow in the damp of the drizzle stood the baler and balewagon. Not self-propelled, they were powered by a pair of old but well-maintained John Deere diesel tractors. Through the years we had been teased about our ‘his and hers’ tractors. We were a couple working the fields together; a marriage of souls striving toward a common goal. Round and round the hay field moved the tractors, traveling in opposite directions, coming together…separating, only to meet again on the next round. She was baling; he was driving the stacker. They would smile and wave; sometimes stopping for a brief word or a cool drink. I waved farewell to the memory, knowing where it would be if needed.

         I considered the dichotomy of a farm sale. On one end of this delicately balanced emotional scale there rests an efficient, speedy means with which to unload the accumulation of a lifetime. At the other rests the agony of watching in a very few hours, this same accumulation leave your possession forever. I had thought I was ready. As I moved down the line doubts, like the slow ooze of molasses began to penetrate my mind.

         As I shook wet drops from the brim of my cap willing the rain to be over, I stopped for a moment in front of the green squeeze chute. A “Powder River?” Well…not really. This was an accurate copy of a “Powder River.” We needed so much that first couple of years. Most of all, we needed a cattle squeeze and like so many other things, couldn’t afford to buy one. As it had done many times in the past and would do many times in the future, Ed’s inventive genius saved the day. That first winter we borrowed a “Powder River” from a friend. In the warmth of our well-used machine shop he measured, cut, fit and welded an accurate copy. We were hard put to afford new iron in those days, so even some of the raw material had to be scrounged. To my eyes it was beautiful and it worked!

         Some pieces of equipment in the line had resulted from ‘high’ bids at other farm sales. By this time, the concept of ‘new’ had vacated our vocabulary. We repaired them, painted them, maintained them and used them. Now, on this Saturday morning in April, down across the dormant alfalfa field they marched, as if to say “we may be old; we may be well used, but we can still do a job for some other young couple trying to make a start.” With a sigh I turned to retrace my steps. A lazy sun lightened the sky as the drizzle gave thought to a ‘cease and desist’ action. Instinct or thought…I’m not sure which…caused me to turn my face once again to the long silent line. There, with its elusive pot of gold planted firmly in the cab of the swather and its arc fanning the sky, was the most beautiful double rainbow I had ever seen. God had smiled and I felt better.

         Cars were negotiating the lane and parking. Prospective buyers began a leisurely perusal of items for sale. One large trailer heaped high with antique and modern horse gear held center stage in the yard. Ropes, saddles, harness, blankets…single-trees double-trees, hay-hooks, pitchforks…hammers, wrenches, jacks and screwdrivers. Here lay the day-to-day necessities of a working ranch. By nightfall it would all be gone. Even Ed’s first custom saddle would be sold. That was the one Kelly Mann had built to his specifications in the very lean year of 1956. They traded, but I don’t remember the details.

         Filling the lawn outside the garden fence was a small tractor, a mower, trimmers, lawn furniture, hydraulic rams, a tent, a camp stove and even a cedar strip canoe we had labored to build during a long winter many years ago.

         Because rain was a ‘given’ in April, we had filled one three-sided shed with large antiques and furniture. The new steel building was filled with art (much of it my own creation) and a table full of small antiques. I had sorted and re-sorted…pulled back…replaced. This activity was like selling your children or part of your soul. Such were the feelings of reluctance with which I approached the final decisions. Paintings, drawings, weavings, batiks represented a thirty year gathering whose life on the wall or in the corner of a closet had come to an end. There were other special photographs and pieces of art we had collected over time. These choices were not easy, either, but since we had made them together, we shared the burden of pain. I turned away and watched the crowds gathering around the first large trailer.

         10AM. Rays of sun like golden spears had pierced the clouds. Battery-pack microphone clipped to the collar of his jacket, cap screwed firmly on his head, the auctioneer had jumped on the first trailer. Slightly back and to his left stood his bookkeeper. On her clipboard she would carefully note the number in the hand of each buyer and the amount of the final bid. Standing to his right holding item #1 was one of many assistants who would help to display goods as the day wore on.  Fascinated as always by the rapid patter of the auctioneer, I listened and smiled as his singsong cries penetrated the crowd and began to build to a crescendo. The bidding accelerated. Within minutes, one after another, the motley array of items was sold. Pitchforks, shovels and brooms were the first to go. These were items to work the crowd and build the mood. When he judged his audience ready for some serious bidding, as if by magic a few larger pieces appeared on the scene. Hands flailed the air. Prices shot up! The sale would seem to be a ‘go.’

         Friends and strangers, neighbors and the curious had come from miles around to join the fun, observe the spectacle and visit with friends. Farm sales have long held their place in rural areas as prime social events during the spring and summer season. In the last twenty to thirty year’s urban people seeking refuge from the city have purchased their own “taste of the country.” This phenomena is reflected in hundreds of five-acre tracts dotting hills and valleys across the west. It has caused the flavor of farm sales to change forever. Antique machinery and horse tack, iron wagon wheels, milk cans…worthless? Unsaleable? Maybe once, but no more. These cast-offs from yesteryear have become today’s hot items. Our sale boasted a decent share of these sought-after bits and pieces. As I watched them sell, some for prices beyond my imagination, I wondered at their eventual destinations. Would they adorn the wall of some rustic den or hang under the eaves of a barn for decoration as some of ours had done? Or would they be used to harness a team…someone’s hobby…a way of re-living the days of a century ago? At this time, my mind had stepped outside  my body. Was this person wearing my red jacket and tan cap some stranger co-hosting a Saturday farm sale? Surely this event was not occurring at the Rafter “D”. I seemed to float above and around the crowd, oblivious to voices, to laughter and congestion. Only the wearisome cry of the auctioneer pierced my brain. As if in a dream, I watched pile after pile of goods clutched as treasure by its new owners. The large trailer emptied. The garden shed emptied. The shed with antiques and furniture emptied. The crowd moved down the line of machinery. The day wore on. I had watched enough.

         Our daughter’s 4-H club provided the lunch without which no farm sale is complete. Was I hungry? No, but I should eat something. As I bought a hot-dog from the smiling little girl behind the table, I heard the rain. No drizzle this time, but a deluge beating hard upon the steel roof of the machine shop. Would it last for forty days or just long enough to dampen the spirits of the remaining buyers? A teeming mass of people who had earlier stood in line to pay for their purchases rushed frantically to their cars, pickups, their trucks. Tires spun through mud beginning to form in the alfalfa field. Taillights disappeared, one car at a time behind a wall of rain. All but a few hardy souls were gone within minutes. Would they have stayed if the sun had continued to shine? The contents of a small trailer, the art and small antiques…all were still to be sold. The afternoon, the buyers, the auctioneer, his crew; all were weary. Now they were wet, too. Instead of the carefully monitored sale of art works I had envisioned and planned for the items were held up a dozen at a time With only a few people left to bid all pretense of a sale was gone. Emotions exhausted I tried not to listen. Finally, like a zombie I ran for the ‘Jimmy’ to huddle in a corner of the front seat protected from the rain.

         The last cry echoed across the empty compound. It was over. A few buyers stood in line to pay for their purchases as the relentless rain poured under their collars and down their backs. Within an hour the yard and the buildings were bare. What machinery had been left to load would be gone by Sunday night.

         Was it a successful sale? It had come to an end. We were relieved and a little sad. The choice had been ours. Tired and drained we looked at each other, held hands and smiled. We looked toward the west and to the days ahead as pink-laden rain clouds bowed their heads at last to the sunset of a beautiful evening.