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. 

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. 

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."

Great-Uncle Hank

World, I'd like you to meet my great-uncle.
You may already know him. He's a pretty incredible guy!

We're rather meeting him together. I'm getting to know him like I never did, and he is a wealth of inspiration!

Uncle Hank is my late grandmother's brother. My grandma that was the center of my world, and a sizable chunk of my heart to this day. As a child, I remember him visiting at grandma and grandpa's with his family, maybe once a year or so. He was REALLY tall, and largely a stranger to me. I feel like I spent the majority of their time there, being somewhere else.

Great-Uncle Hank carrying my dad.

Our home is the site of his childhood. The family moved here when he was two. Since we moved in, Uncle Hank has made a near-annual visit, usually in October. Even in its sorry current condition, he enjoys seeing the barn. In the early part of this decade, it seemed his way of closing his time in New York, before traveling back to Texas for the winter with his wife.

When he walks through it, he points out the scenes from his most vivid memories. The giant, old maple tree beside the barn is where his grandpa used to park his Model T when he came to help put in hay. There's a certain spot at the edge of the hay mow that he distinctly recalls as the precise point upon which he fell out of the mow and broke his arm.

It was this fall I'd learned that Uncle Hank no longer winters in Texas. He's made his home in New York, and still enjoys coming to see the barn. This year, at 90-years-old, the condition of this place that he once worked and played seemed more important than it had in the past. Uncle Hank noted some places my husband has attempted to patch, and it gave him tremendous hope that we would yet save the barn.

It seemed only right to be honest. As much as we would love to save the barn, it's a matter of finances. As a young(ish) family, living in an obscenely overtaxed area, in a state with an equally obscene cost of living, I didn't know that we would ever have the funds to save the barn before it fell in.

Those were horrible words to hear coming out of my own mouth to this sweet man. Thankfully, they didn't dull his hope, or the twinkle in his eyes (so much like I remember my grandmas!). There's something about Uncle Hank and his wish that energized this buried dream up and out of the depths of my heart.

Something that felt like it might happen eons from now, suddenly gained top priority, and a significantly more urgent deadline.

With a new year just around the corner, I'm opening myself to faith, and creating one (of a few yet to be pursued, this is just the fastest) avenue to make a milestone in the big dream possible: making the first repairs to our old barn. If you would like to help with this, our fledgeling gofundme page is here for you to share or contribute to if you are so inclined.

No matter what, thanks so much for reading along so far.

Birth Days

Birth days are a big deal. October is a HUGE birthday month in this family! Both grandmothers (and on the same day, no less!), a couple of aunts, and my son to mention a few. This is all quickly followed by Miss Autumn. Who, as we said in the last post, will turn 18 this year.

And if you read the last post, you know there's something big in store for her! Something that looks a bit like this...

And if you've read any of the other recent posts, you know this DEFINITELY feels like the cart before the horse! It's time to have a place on our place where this girl can keep her animals. Yes, there is a farm next door where she learns from her grandpa and grows by the day. It's great, and it is also a crutch. We need to see what she is made of - if she has the dedication to take this on and care for her animals day in, day out. Of course she will have help, but she deserves to test her wings and see what she is capable of.

And if it works for her, might it have the potential to help others like her in a variety of ways?
We think so.

And the barn needs to be the barn of old again. I've told you there is a senior gentleman that also finds this an important mission. What is the thing that grounds you? Where is your base? What brings you peace and comfort? For him, I think our barn does many of those things. He wants to see it restored, and because of him, there is a sense of urgency around this project that there never was before.

SO - as we continue to look for grants and I continue to draft my book (that part probably doesn't make sense - hang tight - it will in time) - we may start a gofundme account. We're hoping to talk to some friends with financial knowledge and experience with these types of campaigns before diving in.

Another Brown Swiss Calf,
because there's no such thing as too much cute!

The husband and I are unsettled about this step. It feels like begging. It feels like it has the potential to take advantage of friends and loved ones. At the very least, it feels like we might guilt trip people whose money would be better spent taking care of themselves and their loved ones than furthering our cause.

We don't want that.

The upshot is, it could unite people with similar passions to our cause. Historic restorations are environmentally conscious things to do! People might want to contribute just because they will have a hand in restoring a piece of the past. People might want to contribute because truly, they just don't make anything like they used to. This is worth saving as a testament of things that were built to stand the test of time.

People might want to contribute because our special needs friends deserve a shot at living to their true potential. They deserve freedom and independence: as much as can safely be afforded them. In school jargon, we talk about LRE: Least Restrictive Environment. So perhaps people will want to contribute because our girl deserves that chance.

People might want to contribute because they understand or can empathize with the crush of responsibility the parent of a special needs child feels to somehow ensure that their child will be safe, well-cared for, and financially secure all of their days. LONG after their parents have departed the earth. That's a scary one for people whose entire savings goes directly to school and property taxes Every. Single. Year. That's the one that wakes you up in the dead of night. That's what makes you contemplate things that force you to set your ego aside and do things that you wouldn't have in any other possible storyline that could have been your life.

People might want to join this cause because there is magic in bringing the past to life for our community of advanced citizens. It's a tangible statement to their worth: a living legacy to their lives and contributions to our world as it stands today. THIS matters, and so do they! The idea of a nonagenarian getting to see a piece of his childhood returning to its former glory? That might make you set aside your pride and do some crazy things too!

So that's where we are. We've gained a contact that can help with a business plan. Gained the support of a skilled builder who can guide the project. Now we need to talk about gofundme.

What would you do?

This Old Barn

The funny thing is, it isn't as if this old barn is something I just became aware of. If you haven't been here, you may not be aware that I live on the homestead that my grandma was raised on. You may not  know that as a child, I assumed this would be my place: the giant old house that once stood here and that I used to sneak into when vacant to play and daydream, would be where I lived.

Sadly, the house was deemed in ill-repair and used as a controlled burned for our local fire department the day (seriously, like as I was leaving) I left to attend college in Wilmington, Ohio. The flames of my dream ignited my rearview mirror, as tears washed my face, but failed to clear the vision from my mind even after six hours of trying. At the time, I thought that was the final indication that I wasn't meant to live in New York.

Imagine the moment when, 13 years later, my husband asked if I would like to move home. In the first place, the man is a diehard Buckeye! I couldn't imagine he would ever want to live in New York again (he had for a year or two - it wasn't magical). I weighed carefully... yeah, no. Not really. I didn't weigh ALL of my options. Not the ones I should have. I thought about our parents and who at the time seemed better able to travel to see us. I did warn that the taxes would be insane, the cost of living higher... Yet we packed up a giant U-Haul, our little girl and baby boy, and headed east.

My younger self had never told my husband about the plot that would eventually become our home. He had a few other locations in mind - but there was none of that! Older self really wishes I had taken a little bit of time to explain why I bought five acres in exactly NONE of the places he hoped for.

But that was MY house that went up in flames all of those years ago. In my heart it was, at least. And if I couldn't have grandma's house, then at least I could have the ground she'd played on.

And of course, the barn is still here. In that barn lies my mission - maybe OUR mission. Because ultimately, this old barn may be about more than me and my husband. It IS about more than me and my husband. It's about more than our now-young woman and her dreams. It may even be about more than a beloved senior gentleman, his memories and HIS dream!

All will be revealed. For now, it's enough to know that it's time to save this old barn. We'll need all the help we can get to accomplish it. Perhaps, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. We'll see. In the meantime, we're reaching out for advice and assistance. Please do share this post if you know of anyone with any experience or interest in barn restoration! If anyone local knows anything about the history of this barn previous to 1930, we'd love to have that information too.

A Wonderful Time

A strong hand at my waist guides me effortlessly as we glide around an open-air environment. Our dance is so easy. It feels as though we are floating, our feet never touching the ground. I can feel the lightest layers of periwinkle chiffon swirling around and behind me and somehow I manage to be graceful enough never to trip.

My partner is an indescribably handsome stranger. Young, dark haired, gentle eyes and equally gentle hands that guide me with a strength that is not forceful, but comforting. My heart feels so full; I never want this moment to end! Just as the thought enters my mind, I hear him say, “I have to go.”

“I don’t want you to,” I say calmly, knowing this parting was inevitable.

“I know. But didn’t we have a wonderful time? What a wonderful time we have had.” I hear the words; but I no longer see the man.

“He’s gone. Your Aunt just called.” My mother’s voice breaks into the room.

“OK,” I say. I roll to my side, pull the covers up under my chin, and calmly begin to drift into the reality of the morning. July 10, 2002, my grandfather has just passed away after suffering for months with prostrate cancer. The words still echo in my mind as the morning sun enters my awareness. I do not feel devastated. I feel grateful for the moments I had with him that I will now hold forever in my heart.

My grandpa taught me to tie my shoes. He gave me my first cow. He played endless games of Yahtzee and later Triominoes and even later Dominoes with his grandchildren. When I was in college and broke, this retired dairy farmer "bought" a calf from me to see me through the rough patch, and never had the ownership papers transferred to him. His laugh was the most unique, contained chuckle I have ever heard. I can still hear it today. His eyes the most incredible blue and when he was about to tell you a joke, their twinkle rivaled any star I have ever seen.

We did. We had a wonderful time! Every moment I had with him was a gift. What an example he set for his children and grandchildren. Kindhearted, but strong, gentle but determined! A leader in his community, a friend, a hard worker, an intelligent business man who loved his wife, raised his children with a firm, consistent and caring hand; and enjoyed his grandchildren for all their uniqueness and potential.

I miss my grandpa. I think of him often. I can’t help but be reminded that not only did we have a wonderful time; but I am bearing witness to another generation having their own, equally wonderful time, with another kindhearted, strong, intelligent man.

My dad, I believe, is currently at the height of glory in his role as Grandpa. With grandkids ranging in age from infant to young adult, his mornings begin with grandkids and sometimes end the same way. His afternoons are touched by a pre-schooler who has zero interest in cows but shares his love of cheese and ice cream, and a school age granddaughter who loves his cows almost as much as he does. He spends his weekends with one of his beautiful young adult granddaughters, and revels at her many talents, endless potential and effortless beauty that radiates from the inside, out. From inside his barn, dad can ponder the future of his oldest granddaughter, and marvel at how she is so independent as she makes her way in the world. I've had to leave out some of the most extraordinary of this generation, but they are not any less important or loved in his eyes, or mine.

It is still a wonderful time. An incredible time. It will never be the same again. It will always change and yet, it remains. Thank you, Grandpa, for setting the stage for this generation. For teaching me to be kind, strong, smart, determined and hard working. I may never again have such a wonderful dance partner; but I will never stop dancing in the glory of all the wonderful people and things that are around me.