A Mantle to Wear Gently

Obituaries. Once upon a time, you didn’t pay to put a loved one’s obituary in the newspaper. The information was submitted, and the editorial staff edited the information to match the style of the paper. As such, you never really saw verbiage such as “left this plane of existence to walk the heavens with her beloved pet goat she called Bagel.” 

You also wouldn’t see an octogenarian or more described as having died unexpectedly.

Death is as much a part of life as birth, breathing, and taxes. We don’t like to face that this moment ends, because the reality is, no one knows for certain what exactly, if anything, lies on the other side of a heart that has ceased its perpetual rhythm. Still, there are moments when death is no surprise. Sometimes death is a gift: when a loved ones lengthy relationship with pain and suffering finally concludes, we feel relief and gratitude. 

In that case, the idea of death is more bearable than the reality of endless agony.

Uncle Hank was not afraid of death. In fact, he not only built his next “home,” he had half a mind to remodel it! As we were visiting one day, he gestured to the two wooden boxes stacked beside my chair. He said his urn might not be done, as he might want to wire it for electric, in case he wanted heat. 

As a nonagenarian, there was a lot of life left in that man.

This is when I got to know him best. Previous to this, my memories of Uncle Hank included hiding from him and his family when they would visit my grandma and grandpa, and the receiving line at my grandma, his sister’s, funeral. Uncle Hank hugged me that day, and whispered in my ear “you could be just like her.”

My grandma left this world at 70 years old. In my early twenties, this was the most devastating loss I’d ever experienced. It would be decades before I ever felt so destroyed over losing a loved one. Uncle Hank’s words brought me back to life in that moment, and in many moments that have followed in my life. I doubt I’ll ever live up to the possibility he proposed; but in that moment, I could see Uncle Hank was a man who looked for the best in life and the people that grow in it.

Decades passed, and it was a mutual appreciation for the old Storm farmstead that brought us together. In his late 80’s through early 90’s, Uncle Hank would drop by to see the old barn. Walking through and sharing memories of his childhood in the place my family now calls home. He was a time machine - transforming a dilapidated behemoth into a strong, steady shelter for farm animals and the family that worked it. I could again imagine great-grandma driving the horses that hoisted the swaths of hay into the mow. I could feel the angst when Junior fell out of the hay mow and broke his arm. 

We could feel it, and we wanted the old barn back. 

Restoring this building is more of an undertaking than I ever could have imagined. I had no idea I would face any resistance, let alone the WALLS of negativity I have come up against. People who think it’s impractical - people who took offense to my thinking others would feel the joy the project could bring and might want to contribute in some way. 

In the face of all of that, a piece of me died. My hope took a massive hit. My faith in people I thought I could count on is lost. My heart feels slashed to ribbons. 

In the middle of all of that, Uncle Hank found the words once more.

“You have time,” he said. 

Even when I knew he didn’t. 

He knew I did. 

So gently the words came. As my frustration clouded my brain with hurt and confusion, his eyes, so clear, and easy was his voice. You. Have. Time. 

He had faith, he planted a seed, and he wasn’t afraid to dream.

I have time, and I can’t help but hold fast to this dream.

We've taken some baby steps forward, and while I yearned for more, Uncle Hank drew joy from any inch of progress made, and any talk of the plans that lie ahead. That is the mantle it is time for me to take on.

On Monday, Uncle Hank’s time on this plane of existence ran out. 

At 92, his death felt unexpected. He was still so full of life and hope that some part of me thought it would carry him through until we could walk into his barn, restored back to its former glory. At 92, he was still changing his world, and mine.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll be just like him one day. 

Surrender

What a word - "Surrender." If you look at the context people use it under most of the time, it is often linked with defeat. The only time I can think of "surrender" being used somehow favorable falls in the category of romance novels. 

  "Violet's tumult of thoughts and hesitations slowly surrendered to the line of passionate kisses the captain was blazing down the length of her graceful throat." 

 As a woman of an ever more certain age, I'm not sure that's even a positive use of the term. 

 The dictionary also looks on the word in a downhearted light. Giving in to the enemy? How often are we at war?

...how often ARE we at war? With ourselves, with the people and world around us... with the universe. Hm.

At the bottom of the definition, there is another term: "yielding." Let's deep-dive into that, shall we?

Surrender as a positive idea came to me in a yoga class when a teacher encouraged students to "surrender to the pose." By this she encouraged first noticing your whole body, paying attention to areas where you feel discomfort or tension. Instead of letting the discomfort create more discomfort and tension in your brain or other areas of the body, you soften. Sounds weird, right? In that moment of tension, you practice keeping your breath calm, cool, and easy; and aim to bring ease to the tense places, not by backing out the pose; but instead by trying to relax the muscles and be comfortable just being where you are. With all of it. 

THIS, my friends, is surrender. 

Inside the old barn. 

Surrender doesn't mean giving up. It means allowing what IS to be. Hurt and hope, uncertainty and determination, fear and faith... all woven together in an extraordinary fabric that ultimately becomes something we can't begin to imagine. Surrender doesn't ask you to allow your purpose to be defeated, but instead to find peace in the process of finding out what your true purpose is. 

On the surface, just a couple of weeks ago, surrender for me was allowing the idea that we may have to rip our old barn down and use salvageable remnants to create something new. That hurt, and even still there was hope in it. What hurt worse was thinking nothing would happen with it in Uncle Hank's lifetime; and we surrendered to that too.

That's when the shift started. 

Today, I'm writing to tell you that there is work happening as we speak on the barn. Before the end of this month, arguably the weakest spot in the structure will be strengthened. This is happening because a kind man made time to survey the space inside and out, top to bottom; educate me a bit on the Amish perspective, and then took on the work. 

That guy will get a blog post all to his own. Maybe several, as early on in this process, he'd approached me about creating a how-to guide for other people with limited funds and giant structures who want to reclaim them. There's room for everything in cyberspace, isn't there? 

For now, the back wall is the place to start. Right in the middle of the barn. Aside from a patch over the biggest hole in the roof and new cement to fill the hole the woodchucks made in the foundation, the difference won't be noticeable from the outside. 

It's what's on the inside that counts though, right? 

Gratitude, Hope, and Drizzle

Levi shakes his head as he kicks at the cement at the base of the barn.

Levi shakes his head as he inspects the center posts, completely disconnected at the base.

Levi never looks up once. 

We all looked up. Only Levi looked down.

"Raise the whole barn up. Scrape the old cement away. Pour new. Lower the barn and then start repairing." That will cost a lot of money, and take a lot of time. 

Photo by Brianna Santellan on Unsplash

"There are good pieces. You could tear the barn down, and use what's good to build something new... something smaller."

With my gratitude, we parted. I walked through the fall drizzle, back to the house. 

At least he showed up. How many others have I called, described this crazy project, and been told "I'll get back to you in a couple of weeks," and never hear from them again?

The thought of tearing this behemoth down hurts. I feel the weight of this as though my shoulders and heart turned to lead. I have ideas as big as that barn and even if no one else can, I can imagine it strong and welcoming those ready to find respite within its great walls. 

The idea of using pieces of the barn to create other things had occurred to me. We've used some of the old tin to create cupboard doors in our house. I've seen several Pinterest crafts and wanted to use items from the barn to create them - it's a matter of time really. I'm awfully short on time. 

Two teens, a full-time job - two full-time jobs really. No one counts cooking and cleaning for a family as a job; but those of us that do it know that it is. A couple of my past occupations have sprung back to life in fun ways - I feel like I'm burning the candle at both ends, and somehow enjoying the burn. 

The barn is hard to fit in, and yet every time I go outside, there it looms. Not only is this relic in need of my attention, there is a dear man who knows as I do that this relic deserves my attention. 

Levi's words, penned in a lovely "hand crafted" card purchased at a department store. A little glitter, an oversized butterfly, and a realistic perspective written with love and greatest hope of not breaking a dear man's heart.

A week later, we sit in his living room. It's not so easy to get out of his chair these days. Two hand-crafted canes of his own making work better than one now. The easy smile and clarity in his eyes remains unchanged. Every time I'm with him, my grandmother — his sister — feels closer. 

The idea of building something new is intriguing! We could mark the pieces - somehow note their original purpose. While the ideal is saving the present structure, there is hope and innovation in the idea of something new. And the pieces are incredible, really. Where could anyone find 12" square posts made of solid oak these days?

"Why you could put it anywhere you wanted! You could make it look however you wanted. Maybe it could look like the old barn. Maybe it could have a gabled roof. I wonder what you could do with all of that old cement?" 

We agree bringing ourselves to tear down the old barn - that's the hardest part. 

"But you have time," he says. "You have time. That's in your favor."

His gaze unwavering. We can't really do anything in winter anyway. Best to start in the spring. 

I think he's turning 92 this month. He doesn't want to talk about it. 

"We're skipping this one," he says. The easy smile may fade from his lips at times, and yet somehow exudes from his every fiber. He is peaceful. The joy in his heart is unmistakable. 

I hugged him goodbye before he had time to try to get up from his chair. 

In the quiet bubble of my car, I can fold. Head on the steering wheel, tears slide in a steady stream. 

Hope surrounds the fall drizzle within. 

"That Old Barn Isn't Worth Saving, Anyway."

Photo by SLP Photography

Yep. That's what she said.
Not me, my daughter. Standing with her back to our front door, arms folded, looking at me and her dad.

"That old barn isn't worth saving, anyway."

The Mr. and I exchanged glances. We instantly knew that didn't come FROM her.
That came THROUGH her.

As usual, when someone says something that is so unbelievably inconsiderate, and wrong, I stand staring with my mouth hanging open. No response. I don't listen with intent to argue. I listen to hear and understand what is being said. Sadly (or perhaps gladly in the end), that leaves me ill-prepared to supply a witty, or insightful comeback.

Thankfully, her dad is a little quicker on the draw than I am.

"You know honey, I'm sure there are people that think that," he began with the sweet tone he reserves solely for his best girl; "but there are a handful of people that don't."

And in this case, that is all that matters.

In a larger sense, in a world view sense though, it points to a greater societal illness.

WASTE.

Disposable society? You are not kidding!

Why preserve something old when you can build something new? Why recycle plastic straws, they're little, what does it matter? Why try to fix a broken item when you can go buy another (it's often faster and sometimes that replacement costs less than the repair)?

And lately, when faced with a pandemic...

It sure seems like some people must see this as a way to thin out our elder and more needy population. When you continue to live as you normally do, despite local, state, and federal officials daily edicts to STAY HOME - what else is anyone to think?

The only conclusion is that, just like some people feel about my old barn, old people, disabled people (because if it comes down to a hospital triage situation, my daughter's life could be deemed less essential than that of an EMS worker or law enforcement officer. Sit with that for a moment - would you want to have to make that choice?), people with chronic conditions such as asthma (that's a lot of people!) are DISPOSABLE.

This moment in time is unprecedented. Never before has society moved at such a swift and careless pace. Never before has it taken a pandemic to slow us down... and never before has our country shown such blatant disregard for the guidance of our public officials. Republican, Democrat alike being equally ignored. Obviously, not by all, but as we know, it only takes a few.

Though my husband is essential, and reporting to work as usual, we are doing our best to respect the guidance supplied by our officials. We trust that the information conveyed by experts in the public health and medical fields is far superior to whatever meme we may have stumbled across on social media, or a text from that one friend that seems to be an expert at EVERYTHING.

And for the record, we're still going to work to restore our barn. Post by post, of both wood and digital, as it seems that is the best we can do right now. Regardless of what the hip, cool, and careless may think, we will NOT throw something away with as much history, strength, and sentimental value as that structure holds. My biggest hope now is that the restrictions are lifted and our region is well enough that Uncle Hank will get to be here the day work begins.

Red Ferns, Green Beans, and Barnyard Dreams

Farm on property first owned by Isaac Cummings

Crisp, trifold papers encased in heavier red and green covers are spilling out of a folder, and onto the table. Did you know about the coins? 

“It was good luck, customary, to hide a coin in the house for good luck,” says Rick Brain, owner of the barn at the top of what is now called Smith Road, in Forestville. 

According to Rick, he was helping his grandfather put a new roof on his grandparent’s home. He spotted a flash of silver, and asked his “gramps” to hand it to him. His grandfather, Henry R. Egbert, assumed it was a washer and was agitated at Rick’s persistence, but eventually handed over the coin. 

“I said hey, this is a silver dollar!” Rick recalls. “And from that point on, we argued over who had found that coin. So grandma took it and said she was going to keep it for us. At that time, it was probably worth $40-$50.” 

The coin was dated 1856. Time stole the memory of Rick’s grandmother, Dale Egbert, and the coin was lost. The date, however, lives in Rick’s memory: 1856. 

Back to those sharply folded papers — typewritten deeds — and lots of them! Name after name is read as each ancient page is unfolded. Ultimately, Rick and his wife, Lisa Cislo, arrive at the first owner of the property: Isaac Cummings. Cummings purchased the land from the Holland Land Company in 1836.

Though the coin may be the only clue as to when the structures were added to the property, the details and stories grow richer as the discussion moves to present-day. 

Fernside

The barn currently stands in a traditional shade of red. A word is printed on the North side of the structure: Fernside. Rick says the writing predates his grandfather’s purchase of the property in 1954. They have no knowledge of the meaning. As you walk through the inside of the barn, it becomes clear that red wasn’t its original color. 

At one time at least, the barn was green, and it wasn’t a dairy barn. 

Built in three stages, the barn has stalls for horses and pigs, and a chicken coop in the upstairs. There was a small silo that may have been made entirely of wood. Rick can still show how acetylene traveled underground between the house and barn and was used to illuminate them both. The remnants of a creamery were found in the basement of the home. It appears this barn was not built for any commercial intent - but simply to meet the needs of the family living there. 

“Gramps” was the first dairy farmer to ship commercially from this location. He spent countless hours on nights and weekends, revamping the barn to accommodate milking 30 Holstein cows and all the equipment he would need. At first, the equipment included milking machines that strapped on to the cow, and a cooler big enough to hold milk cans. Later, he upgraded to a bulk tank. Henry also became a milk hauler and then attained a license to be able to read milk weights. In later years, Henry worked for the town of Villenova; operating both the snow plow and dump truck.

Having lived through the depression, Henry was a thrifty farmer. He kept every rusty nail and bolt he ever had used, just in case he might need it. If something broke, he would spend endless hours searching for something he already owned that might serve to get him through. Running to town to purchase parts was not ever an option Henry chose if he could somehow avoid it.

An animal lover, Henry didn’t keep to a consistent practice of culling his herd. He stuck to his pragmatic ways by only feeding the cattle whatever was least expensive. For many years, the answer was bean snips. 

“There was a canning factory down in South Dayton,” Rick shares. “The last thing they processed were beans. They had the bean snips: the waste.” 

Since Henry had two dump trucks, one could stay at the canning factory, and a loaded one would be brought home. “We had made a bunker [to store the beans] on a cement pad, and that was how we fed them. And the cows made SO much milk off of that! And it was free! Gramps loved that!”

Nothing replaced the quality and affordability of bean snips when the canning factory was shut down. The cows grazed on hay in fields around the farm. The effects of that are still apparent today, as the ground is still rough from cow hooves plodding through the fields when they were soft from rains or a spring thaw. 

While it was running on a shoestring, the farm didn’t stay current. Generations of family that might have been interested in continuing the farm found Henry rigid in his methods. Anyone thinking they might want to continue the legacy was faced with a sizable investment to update equipment and advance to a more modern operation. 

“I definitely wanted to take over the farm,” Rick shares. When asked if he favored the cows or machinery, he replies  “Both. Because I loved it all.”

In 1986, Henry encouraged Rick to go to college “and then we’ll see.” Only Gramps never became ready to hand over the reins to anyone. As he speaks, the gravity of all he would have had to do to make his Gramp's farm a profitable business seems to settle in. 

Photos Courtesy SLP Photography

Nevertheless, the spark of Rick’s hopes and dreams is still alive. He had wanted to add more cows and had a goal of being a Dairy of Distinction. He still thinks about owning his own dairy operation, which would include a processing facility. The reality is ever-present though.

Rick knows now he could never get into dairy.

“It costs too much to milk cows and there’s no money in it,” Rick explains. “It kind of scares me, thinking about this area and how many farms there used to be. Now there is one, and he is leaving. So, I mean… there’s going to be nobody up here.” 

He and Lisa imagine other ideas for their  barn that lend themselves to agri-tourism: a pumpkin farm, corn maze, raising beef cows, maple syrup… for creative people, the options seem endless. For now, Rick is a sought after, self-employed contractor. From woodwork to electrical to plumbing, many of the skills he employs on the job as Cranium Remodeling saw their beginnings on the farm. 

“My Gramps and Annie, my aunt, they both asked me ‘how in the hell did you learn to do everything you do?” Rick shares, “it’s from watching, and I learned that from Gramps because he would always say ‘pay attention,’ you know? ‘You can learn a lot if you watch,’ and that’s what I did. I just picked things up.”

The differences between how Henry made repairs and how Rick now approaches his work become more apparent throughout the conversation. Henry, as was the common practice of his generation, Made Do. “Doing it right” has been Rick’s intent from his earliest inclinations. It’s clear that Henry’s creativity in keeping things up-and-running influenced Rick’s ability to approach his work with an open mind; create his own plans for his clients; as well as understand their ideas and be able to incorporate them into his processes. 

“Gramps was getting by.” Lisa observes. “You’re doing it to make a living.”

Rick shares that traveling gives him some peace of mind. “We go camping in North Java, and I like going the scenic route because there are so many farms up there still. It restores my faith in farming, but I know it’s still disappearing because the younger generations just don’t want to do it and it’s so darned expensive you can’t make it if you try — unless you have a couple of thousand cows to milk, you can’t make any money and then it costs so much to keep a couple of thousand cows… you’re so far in debt it’s not even funny.”

“I’d really like to see the mom and pop farms come back,” Rick concludes. 

It IS a Diary, After All.

It's been a busy weekend, and thankfully a long one! Yesterday, which is usually a day I set aside time to write and work on the blog, I had a young man in need of costume alterations for his school play. The day was spent making buttonholes on my grandmother's 1950's era sewing machine, with a buttonhole attachment which I had never figured out how to use before. Thanks so much to YouTube! It's a pretty incredible little gizmo.

So today, some blog work is happening. I'm going through the recordings of my last interview. I keep my computer handy for transcribing the important parts; but I'm usually cleaning house while I listen. I'm excited to get this one written! There are so many interesting points to explore. It's interesting to look at families where a grandparent and grandchild are working together. It's a lot like what's happening with my daughter and my dad. I quite often stay out of it on purpose. My relationship with my grandmother was one of the greatest blessings of my life. She had far more influence on me than my parents. And now, as I look for mentors and role models for my girl, I can't imagine a better guide in life than my dad.

Simple symbiosis.

Autumn and Satin

Today though, I stepped in a little and helped the girl work with her calves, Satin and Julia. Of course, that ended in teenage angst! This is why I rely on my dad so much. Julia has a clever pen my dad creates for young calves. Autumn didn't think we should take Julia out of her pen. I was determined to show her it was no big deal and NOW is the time to start working with this calf! My releasing the side of the pen that grandpa had put together was simply not OK in Autumn's world. After quite a bit of tense talk, the pen was put back together and Autumn stormed out of the barn.

NO, she isn't a brat. Autumn's world is not the same as ours. If you know her, you get it, at least to some degree. The hard part to explain is what trying to manage and balance all of that does to a parent. It's honestly hard for me to understand my own emotions and how raising her has changed me. It's an absolute given I am going to push too far at some point. I guess all parents do. I can't really explain what happens in me when things go awry with her. I have two kids, and they are entirely different beings. Things go awry with the boy too. At 14, he is a different kind of exhausting. Even at his worst, there is some level of logic and reason that can still be reached.

When Autumn shuts down, it's an entirely different story. This isn't a simple symbiosis, and it never has been. Parenting her happens at such a primal level in so many ways.

Her grandpa always seems to strike the perfect balance. He may never fully understand the peace of mind he brings me - and the value of the freedom he has given his granddaughter. He considers himself a cow man, first and foremost. His daughter considers him a hero, and always will.

How funny that what I actually logged on to write about was the relationship between cows and people.

It is a diary, after all. Might as well mental purge in a post...

I was on Facebook, which I rather think I'd like to cut right out of my life. Still, there I was. A "User." I heard a speaker once say that there are really only two times humans are referred to as "users:" when they are using technology, and when they are using drugs. Interesting, isn't it?

While on Facebook, I saw a post by a couple of young agvocates I follow. The problem I had was in the comments. The endless, bullying comments by those aiming to end agriculture. Comments full of misinformation and looking for a fight. Misinformed internet trolls who blatantly state they will not rest until the dairy industry is dead.

Those people make me so, so sad.

In a few ways, they are the reason I started this digital diary around a decade ago. They are so far removed from agriculture. They really don't understand how the industry works. Originally, I wanted to capture my experiences, having returned back to our family farm after a near 20-year hiatus. I had realized how much I enjoyed the cows. I had become fully aware of how alive I felt - going to work in jeans and workboots and moving around cows for a few hours each day. THIS was the best symbiosis! I find animals to be incredibly soothing. This was definitely a personal period of my working through so much bottled up stuff around my early stages of parenting. The cows and those hours in the barn were the best therapy I could have asked for.

Still, there was a real sense that it may not last. Even if it did, the chances my children would farm were slim. The chances their children would farm were nil. So to capture some little piece of it so they could look back at mom/grandma's memories and have a feel for what farming is. My idea was to create digital place that stood against the misinformation and horrible videos that are edited and created (and now we know, literally staged!) to capture farming in the worst possible light. I wanted to be someone tangible, believable, and accessible.

But you know, even that is a scary proposition today. I see what the trolls say and how mean they are. In their words, there is no dignity or respect for a different viewpoint. There is no willingness to listen with an open mind and absorb something they have clearly never experienced. It makes me hope my little Barn Diva page never gets so big as to attract that kind of attention.

So while it is little and pretty inconsequential, I'm going to just rant a little. What in the world do the activists think happens to the animals, if farming is ended? Do they imagine cows roaming the woods? Deer roam the woods, and they also pop out on the roads at the worst possible times. Can you imagine connecting to a cow with the hood of your car?

That is why deer are hunted - to control the population. So, would cows be hunted? And in this free-range scenario, how are the cows fed? Is grazing on grass enough for them? How do they survive in the woods in the winter? In the barn, none of this is an issue. OH - and can we imagine in our wooded scenario how the cows are dealing with mange, lice, grub infestation, hardware disease?

Or maybe there just aren't any more cows? We just let them be extinct? How is that better?

Symbiosis. Living a mutually beneficial life. Our animals enrich our lives in so many ways. Make no mistake, we give them comfort, shelter, food, health care, safe pastures and free spaces to move...

I just really don't get it. HOW did we get so removed from this way of life that we have actors on television talking about raped cows and farmers ripping cow babies away from their mothers?

The Farm Phoenix of Forestville

Farmstead owned by Raymond J. Ortel Jr.

Located on a hilltop just outside of Forestville lies a farmstead that blends past and present. In its prime, it housed purebred registered Holsteins, and then grade cattle. It was the mainstay that provided for a family of five, and laid the foundational concepts of responsibility and work ethic for the grandchildren that helped continue the legacy into the beginning of a new century.

For those who knew him, Raymond J. Ortel Jr. was a determined, decisive man. He knew it took hard work to keep a farm running, and was unafraid of driving those concepts home for anyone who worked on his farm. His grandson, Garrett Pfleuger, shares some insight into how the farm worked when he was growing up.

Extension built by the Ortel brothers. 

Though it is uncertain when the original barn was built, a young Ray and his wife bought the farm in the mid-1950's from a man with the last name Saltmeyer. Ray and Darlene raised three "Barn Divas:" Becky, Brenda, and Bonnie. As they grew, each had a hand in keeping the farm profitable. Despite their involvement, it was hard for any of them to imagine taking over the family farm.

According to Ray's daughter, Brenda Ortel Bentley, the extension shown in the photograph shown here was built by Ray, his three brothers: Terry, Dallas, and Sidney, and their father, Raymond C. Ortel Sr. "All the fine carpentry was Uncle Dal's handiwork and part of that generation was the stories handed down while they worked on projects together. Just go listen to Uncle Sid for an afternoon."

Garrett Pfleuger on his grandpa's farm.

In the early decades, the Ray-Dee Farm housed registered Holstein cattle. By the time Garrett was actively involved, the herd consisted of unregistered, or grade cattle. Though he never discussed with Garrett the reasons why he stopped registering cattle, it's possible it became an expense that could no longer be justified.

The herd was dispersed twice. In 1980, all the animals sold were registered. The next year, a scheduled increase in dairy price supports was eliminated, which affected approximately 15,000 dairy farmers in New York state alone. As the young stock matured into milking cows, the herd reformed. By the 1990's and into the next century, Garrett was also growing into an important part of the day-to-day operations. His younger brother, Wade, was working alongside their grandfather as well. Garrett had thoughts of taking over the family farm, and ultimately decided against it.

"I didn't think it would be a good move," Garrett explains. "I could see the market kind of falling behind and it seemed like everyone else was getting out."

Ray received a cancer diagnosis, and continued to milk cows as long as he could. When things became difficult, Brenda recalls "the entire community came to help."

When he was no longer able, the entire herd was dispersed. "Everyone stood in the yard (during the sale), and he sat in the yard and watched them all sell," Garrett remembers. We can only guess at what thoughts ran through his mind that day. "He never talked about that stuff, at least to me."

Brenda warmly adds, "When Raymond J. Ortel departed this earth plane, we lost an amazing farmer, provider, and storyteller. His legacy lives on and is woven into the fabric of the barn, cows, crops and very land he cultivated."

New structure built over the original Ortel foundation
Courtesy SLP Photography

Ray passed away in 2000, and the barn stood empty for a few years. It was then rented for a few years, and then sold. It remained a milking facility until a fire brought it to the ground. Though the farm was rebuilt on the original foundation; memories of the original hand-hewn, peg and beam structure are all that remain. "I used to climb around there when I was a kid," recalls the man who still holds a great appreciation for good craftsmanship.
"It's tough to see. There are so many barns — nice barns — that are still standing and people don't even use anymore."

Garrett has remained tied to the agricultural industry. As an Ag Technician for LandPro, Garrett makes good use of the work ethic he was taught on his grandfather's farm. "I learned a lot of things working on the farm with Grandpa," Garrett shares. "When I'm working on a customer's equipment, [there is an] urgency to get the equipment working again, and fixed right the first time... Time is money and when we had breakdowns we were up against both Mother Nature and time. I think about that when I'm on service calls."