It has been said that the desire to be a farmer is inherent in every boy. The magnetism of the countryside, of nature unfolding her beauty and wonders with each changing season, of trees and plants growing and maturing, of the privilege of observing animals at work and at play—all of this is compelling. In most instances the boy outgrows this desire at the same time that girls decide to give up dolls. However, in my husband’s case the yearning did not diminish with maturity, it accelerated.
At the ripe age of thirty-eight, fresh from the soft life of a desk job and domiciled in Westchester County, New York, he made the transition and we landed on an unimproved dairy-farm in upstate New York. His lack of knowledge of agriculture was offset by the fact that he had a degree in civil engineering, a keen and alert mind, a Pennsylvania Dutch heritage of stability, a tenacity and determination to meet all challenges head-on, and to succeed.
It took me almost five years to take him seriously, to realize that his comments and conversations of the joys and rewarding experiences to be shared, while working with and in the good earth, were not to be treated lightly. At first I panicked, visualizing the years ahead of toil, sweat and tears—and I was in a good position to visualize what lay in store, having been born and raised on a farm in Ontario, Canada. Suffice it to say that I had left The Old Homestead while still in my teens, detesting all aspects of farming and never anticipating or expecting to enter it again, as a way of life. So, when one day as I sat at my desk in Rockefeller Center, routinely handling the chores of an advertising job, the realization that in forty-eight hours I would be what is termed a “farm wife”, struck with a chill that I shall not soon forget.
When it became noised about my office that we had purchased a farm which was intended as a bonafide business, not a weekend or vacation retreat, my co-workers rallied round, wrung my hand and congratulatory messages poured forth. My office, always ready and eager to celebrate any occasion, arranged an elaborate going-away, surprise party for us at one of the New York City hotels. This gala was attended by all. It was complete with lavish food and drink, orchestra, orchids, gifts, amusing speeches, posters and art work depicting the proverbial milkmaid at her labors. These mementos I carefully packed and transported and I always have enjoyed looking at them and with much nostalgia reliving that previous chapter of my life:
Many times in the next years, when bone weary and discouraged, I would look back on those pleasant times, remembering the bright lights, the availability of the museums, the galleries, the theaters, the excellent restaurants and hotels, the plush offices and working conditions. I missed being able to look down from my thirty-ninth floor windows in the International Building1 on the delightful Channel Gardens, and on the sculptured Prometheus, so gracefully supporting the world. There were times over the next years when I, too, felt that I had the whole world on my shoulders.
When we began to seriously discuss the pros and cons of making the change, we had to decide where to buy. The classified section of The New York Times was carefully perused for several weeks. All of our friends, none of whom had any farming background or knowledge, came forward with so many suggestions and information that I was surprised that we were the only couple who were actually taking the plunge. My husband has always claimed that the New York farm was actually my farm, that he had preferred the one in Vermont. The Vermont episode is still very clear in my mind even after twentyfive years.
In the month of February 1943 he set out by New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad, to investigate several leads that we had received from New England. He phoned enthusiastically a few days later and asked me to join him in Northern Vermont for the weekend. I arrived in temperatures of minus-thirty degrees, and we spent Saturday and Sunday being piloted through the countryside by a typical Yankee realtor.
Naturally we did not want to appear at a disadvantage with the rural people, and by the end of the first day I had recalled from my subconscious considerable farm knowledge and lore which had rubbed off on me during those early years in Canada. We realized immediately that practically all country people looked at us with a jaundiced eye, and being from New York City definitely put us in the “City Slicker” category. Two days in Vermont looking at working farms was a liberal education. We were exposed to scenery and majestic beauty that was breath-taking. The dry, cold frosty air, the sparkling, crunching snow under foot, the quietness and cleanness, the peacefulness, and the hills—oh yes, The Hills—were most impressive: Realizing that we had to make a living in this venture we tried to look at everything objectively and decided that having to plant and harvest crops on these very steep side-hills, was probably not for beginners. We returned to New Rochelle a little saddened but considerably wiser and better informed and without our enthusiasm being dampened.
Upstate New York was next in our quest and on Washington’s Birthday weekend we drove to Ithaca, New York, the home of the New York State Agricultural College, at Cornell University. We were taken in hand by a Farm Agency Realtor and shown several farms. By Sunday evening we were driving back to Westchester County with a receipt in our possession indicating that we had in fact made a down-payment on a dairy enterprise, lock, stock and barrel. In my pocketbook was a sepia postcard showing the house and grounds, and this I handled, fondled, looked at and wondered about, trying without too much success to remember and visualize just what we had bought: our plans were to make the move the end of April, in time for the spring planting. Thus began our trials and tribulations, our joys, our tears, our fears, combating the elements, a completely new way a of life, a new culture and a farm economy which in 1943, was at low ebb.