NATURE RECLAIMS ITS OWN
Out in western Chase County, Kansas, north of Cedar Point, a young man stood in the knee-deep weeds and prairie grass, gazing at the farmhouse and outbuildings of an abandoned farmstead. Only the roofs were completely visible; the walls were almost all covered with wild-growing shrubbery, assorted vines, and several species of volunteer trees. He was once again mesmerized by the scene. He had been here many times, but on each visit, in spite of the overabundance of greenery, he was always taken by the forlorn feeling that came over him. The same questions always came to mind. Who lived there? When did they leave, and why? And why was there a tractor—a Case, he thought—parked so near the house? And what of the truck parked so near the buildings, appearing as if it could be waiting for a load of something? But today was different. Today he had answers to some of his questions; not all the answers, but some. As a high schooler, he had worked on several farms in the county and had seen a number of farmers lose their lands for financial reasons. But usually they held auctions in an effort to salvage some value to pay off creditors. It was obvious here that no auction ever occurred. After high school, the young man went to Emporia State University, where he majored in agro-science and minored in American History. Every once in a while he had ridden his Honda sport bike out in the countryside of Chase and Lyon Counties, where he became fascinated by the abandoned farmsteads, which once held only vague interest for him. During his junior year to satisfy a class requirement, he chose to write a paper that would deal with the correlation between active and inactive farms and the local, regional, and national economy. After he had submitted the paper, he was sorting the farm photos he had taken. Two of the several dozen images popped out at him. They were the two he had marked as “old truck,” and “old tractor.” These two photos grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. His subsequent month-long search took him to neighbors, county offices, and libraries. Finally, he had answers to some of his questions; not all, but some. And now, walking around her former home, he could hear her sweet voice telling him about her past. “My dad’s name was Verwin. His twin brother Kerwin died at birth. Dad and Mom—her name was Elizabeth—were married in 1924 and I was born in 1925. They wanted more children, especially boys to work on the farm, but Mom wasn’t able to have any more. “I was in the first grade when the first real bad effects of the Depression hit and farmers started losing their farms. Dad would take me to some of the auctions. I didn’t understand what all was happening, but I knew it was bad. The men weren’t as friendly as farmers always were, and the women cried a lot. “Dad was able to buy some land then; a few acres here, a few there. Like many other farmers, we had a big garden, so we never went hungry. Some folks from the towns would come out to buy what we didn’t eat or can. Those were tough times, but we survived. “After the Depression and World War II, Dad and Mom figured I would get married, but I didn’t. Wasn’t any good reason to. I was fine on the farm helping both Dad and Mom. And, as the years went by, we all did well, until about 1970 when both of them started feeling their ages. “Dad had been at it for almost 50 years and knew he would have to slow down soon. He talked about selling what land he’d bought over the years and just keeping the original farm. Although he never told Mom, I knew he was looking for someone to work for us and eventually take over. The farm was in good shape. The house, barn, and other buildings were sound, and an almost new truck and tractor sat in the shed. “Then one day...one day...Dad took the truck to town. He didn’t take anything with him, and he didn’t bring anything back. He parked the truck and didn’t come into the house, but went straight to the shed. Mom and I could hear the tractor as he left. “He was gone for two hours. “When I heard the tractor coming back, I hollered at Mom. The two of us watched him drive right through a board fence and we knew something was awful wrong. The tractor stopped near the house and we ran toward it just as Dad started to get off. He clutched his chest and fell to the ground. He got out one word—Elizabeth—and then he was gone. Mom was never the same after that. We tried living on the farm, but Mom couldn’t stand it. “Couple months later, somebody from Salina bought the place and we moved to Herington, where one of Mom’s sisters lived. Mom left me a year later. I’m 78 now, and I’ve been here for six years. It’s a nice enough place but not as good as it was in Herington and not near as good as the farm...at least in the good times. “Any time you want to talk again, you just come on back. When you do, bring all those pictures with you.” The young man stood in the knee-high weeds and prairie grass, gazing at the farmhouse with the tractor close by. He had gone back to see Lydia and he had been here at the farm on numerous occasions. Each time, the overgrowth had increased. And he knew it would continue. Unless prevented from doing so, nature always reclaims its own.
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