FARMHOUSE

My fingers are numb from both the chilly November air and the aluminum coil stock I'm braking for window trim on yet another farmhouse being remodled for it's new owners. It won't be long before the house resembles the suburban colonial they have left behind. The farm family has heeded the call of an earlier flock, following them south for a change of career and warmer weather.

The birds above are the only animals in the vicinity. The chicken coop has been cleaned and white-washed, the calf pens stand empty beside the vacant dairy barn. Not even the barn cats remain. As the honking fades, the silence is surrealistic. Farms should be noisy and full of life! Not like the constant background din of the cities but a soothing, peaceful sound of a mother calming her offspring.

I have set up shop in the former equiptment shed. Nothing but one rusted relic from the past is left here from the auction last month. The new owners will probably tow it to the front yard for a flower bed ornament.

The vinal siding is delivered by the lumberyard and the driver chats while we unload the truck, "It's a shame the farmer won't get to see how nice the old house looks. Maintenance-free, yep, that's the only way to go."

I say nothing. The farmer was a good friend who took the time to repaint the pine ship-lap every four or five years, proud that he had kept the original craftsmanship intact. Though it has been a few years since the last time, the paint shows no sign of peeling. Yet the driver is right, no-one wants to spent their vacation time painting the house. Amusement parks and beaches are now needed in order to escape the stress of the closing century.

The last window is wrapped in metal and I climb a fourty-foot ladder to remove crown molding from under the soffits. Carefully prying it away not because it's to be recycled; it will end a long life of as only an attractive piece of lumber in a bonfire or landfill; but because I admire the trouble it took to cut it with only a wooden miterbox and backsaw, the way it's curves were molded by a belt-driven tool powered by a two-stroke engine, even the square-cut nails that fasten it to the house, all signs of a slower age. A time when both farming and carpentry were more than simply production.

As the sun sets I pack up my tools and police the area, no telling when the new owners will show. I can only hope that they will maintain the barn and outbuildings for a future farmer if moving to the countryside doesn't convince them to become farmers themselves. Though dairymen are becoming scarce around here, there are many alternatives that will preserve the nature of the business. The fences are still strong, the pastures now dormant but fertile, neither will remain unless put to use. A bit of remodeling on the barn would provide housing for beef cattle or, perhaps more to the liking of todays back-to-the-landers, one of the more exotic animals, emu or fallow deer, ostriches or bison. If chickens don't fit the fancy of the new folks the coop could easily keep pigeons or pheasants. Too many old coops have been converted to storage sheds and children's play houses.

When this job is finished I'll leave some extension office pamphlets explaining the benefits of land stewardship and the rewards of animal husbandry, along with my business card.