The next couple of days, my last days back in the home country, past quickly.  Too quickly it seemed.  It was a flurry of activity.  Working each day.  Meeting people.  Having that last cup of coffee with people that I’d promised to touch base with.  Dropping things off, picking things up, last minute shopping.

The second to the last night, there was supper with some friends from work.  A quiet affair, with good food and good conversation.

The last day at home saw me madly packing my suitcases and sorting through what items to take, and which to leave.

There just seemed like so little room in two suitcases, and quite frankly, I needed cloths, with my prior six months worth in some cases literally falling apart at the seems.

The last day…that last day is a blur. Running here and there trying to get things done.  Making last minute trips to drop off gifts to family and friends.  Shutting up the house.  Making the final preparations for being gone.

My good friend and mentor Zsolt promised to take me to the airport, and as usual, he didn’t disappoint.  Rolling up outside of my house, he looked a little frightened with my monstronsities that I called suitcases (maximum size, maximum weight, maximum effiecienies).  But he got me to the airport on time.

Dropping off my bags, I made it to my gate and waited.  Soon to head back down under.

 With any event, with any plan, something goes awry.  There is always some fly in the ointment, loose horseshoe, some rubbish run amock, some bur under the saddle, some ship that must run aground, some thorn on a rose, some Achilles heel, Shakespeare with writers block, some white elephant, some albatrose, some farting ox, some mad march hare, some democrat with his hand in your pocket, some Greek gift, some raspberry in the tart, some turd in the well, some snow on the fourth of July, some sheep in the dip, some porker in your pataloons, some donkey’s dander up, some mosquito in the mash, some bridge out, some some skunk in the outhouse, some bee in a bonnet, some dentist at the door, some tooth chipped in your mouth….

Speaking of dentists and chipped teeth.

The last person on my list to see was the dentist.  I’ve got a good dentist, actually, a very good dentist.  He shoots straight, is fast, effiecient, and lets me know before the pain hits.

Needless to say, I had thought to myself, I should schedule an appointment to see him while I was home….

But it wasn’t high on my priority list.

Unfortunately, with less then forty-eight hours to go, one of my teeth chipped.  And I don’t mean some measely little chip, I mean some gashing fissure.  It had happened innocently over supper.  I think I was eating desert, not something that would, or should chip my tooth.

And I felt and heard the crunching noise of bone and filling.

I was horrified.

Early the next morning, I left a message for the dentist.  Rarely had I had a dental emergency, but I could just imagine the worst case senario.  Over the last six months, the food in Australia had put my mouth on a rapid pace of deteriation and over six months, my teeth went from perfectly healthy to falling apart in my mouth.

The horror grew.

The dentist fit me in for an emergency check up.

“Have you had any swelling around your face?  Have your gums swelled up at all?”  The dentist asked.

“Well, I had a sinus infection that swelled up my bottom gums.” I replied.

“OK, everything else looks good, we should just be able to do a quick patch and this will be as good as new.” He replied.

True to his word, I was out within fifteen minutes, with a firm promise to brush and floss thrice a day, which was abandoned before I hit the car.

That said, I think that scheduling a check up for the next time I come home would just about be the bee’s knees.

 That last day we milked cows, I wasn’t there when the last dozen or so old girls were loaded, to be taken to West Fargo and sold at auction.  School came first, and even though it was the last week of school for me, Dad insisted that I go, that I leave, that I not be home.

So leave I did.  Driving the old Ford pick up truck with my sister in tow.  Going to school, sitting through class, while the only life that I’d known was loaded onto the back of the truck and hauled down the road.

Thoughout the day, I thought of home…had the semi arrived?  Did they have trouble loading them up?  How was Dad taking it?

Funny thoughts for a senior in high school, less then a week from graduation, with only one job lined up for the summer, and college looming, and college cost looming, and still the family matters (younger sister and ill mother at home) weighing on me…still the immediate thought was how the loading was going…and how Dad was taking it.

I was probably a funny eighteen year old, but I was a bit nastolgic about the farm life at that point, I knew that it was the passing of an era, I knew that with the cows loaded up and the milkers put away, the life of my father and grandfather - the life on the farm was gone, unless I could devise some way at some point to start again from scratch.  With three older brothers and a younger sister, the prospect of ever restarting the herd was, at the best, remote.

But there was something freeing about it too.  There were so many things changing, so many things that were being turned on their heads, that in so many ways, the innocents of my youth, when all the world seemed right ended over a year ago when Mom first got sick, that the passing of the farm, the selling of the cows, the ending of the era seemed like just one more change in the passing of life.

But there was also a sense, a firm belief, that life doesn’t end, that the ending of an era, of a way of life, wasn’t the end, it was a trasition into the unknown, a transition into the unexplored, a transition into something new and exciting.

The end isn’t an end, it is a beginning.

 That last day was a bit of a sad one. 

For as much as I complained about having to milk the cows every day - morning and night, during the heat of summer and the bitter cold of the northern Minnesota winter, for as much as I complained about it interfering with the social life of my teenage years - everything was done BM or PM…before milking or post milking (example: “I’ll make it to the football game…after milking.”  Or, “Sorry guys, I can’t stick around after track practice, I’ve got to milk.”) - I knew I was going to miss it.

There was something comforting about the work.  As horrible as the world was, as cruel as three older brothers could be, as confusing as teenage girls could be, there was always some solace in the manual labor and thought of a job well done each morning and night.

It also created some structure in the world.

For the last year especially, when Mom was suffering with cancer and Dad taking care of her, the barn and chores became a bit of refuge.  The house had completely changed, from being a place of comfort with Mom firmly at the helm in the kitchen, to a world where things were out of kilter - with Mom incapacitated and Dad and I working to make sure that meals were cooked, dishes and clothing washed, and the house relatively clean and my little sister cared for - all of a sudden the drudgery of the barn seemed, well, comforting.

In town too, especially in a small town, the cows were the convenient excuse.  “No everything is fine, just need to go and take care of the cows.” Was a response that could be used to parlay any of the intrusive questions, or the quandaries of trying to explain why you couldn’t do something that the other teenagers were doing.  It was easier to say I had to milk cows then help care for Mom and sister.

For as hard as it was for me, it had to be even harder for Dad.

Most of his life, he was a farmer, and not just any farmer, a dairy farmer: a man that knew the value of hard work and early mornings, a man of the land, but also a man that had the touch, the skill, the gift, to work with animals.

That last morning, with that last dozen or so animals had to be tough.

He really didn’t show it, but I remember it as one of the few days that he came out to help with chores before milking.  Usually, he would drink his coffee as I did the chores and got the cows in, than he would do the clean up chores as I went to school.  That last morning we milked, he was there for all of it - start to finish.  Feeding, getting the milk room set up, putting the cows in.

As fathers and sons do, I remember an argument or two as well.

“You don’t put that much solution in that bucket?” Dad asked with some surprise and disgust as I pumped cleaning solution into the bucket that we used to wash the cow’s udder.

“You need to get them clean.” I protested.

We argued for a bit, me indignant and stubborn by the fact that I had done it exactly this way for the last eight or so years while Dad was up having coffee…Dad indignant and stubborn by the fact that he was the father and the boss.  Both of us losing sight of that fact that two squirts of udder wash or five…the last day we milked, it really didn’t matter.

 Supper at FarmHouse is an event.

Being an advisor at FarmHouse Fraternity at the University of Minnesota, wait, let me rephrase that, having the honor of being the advisor at FarmHouse at the University of Minnesota for two years, I don’t know that I ever had a bad meal.  When I received the invite (or invited myself…), how could I say no.

The gentlemen of FarmHouse didn’t disappoint.

With beautiful spring weather, they fired up the grill and cooked steaks.  Actually, didn’t cook them, more like grilled to perfection.  As the food was being passed around, first the salad, then the potatoes and bread and the vegetables, I was a bit worried that I wouldn’t get a steak.  But luckily the one steak that was the size of a small horse was still sitting there.

I’m not exaggerating.

The darn thing hung over the edges of the plate.  It could have had its own zip code.  I had hold up one side of the steak as I tried to cut it because so much was hanging off the edge of the plate.  I wasn’t sure if I could eat my salad when I finished, mainly because I couldn’t tell if the salad was still under there or not.  In New England, they might have considered it for statehood (that’s a crack at you Rhode Island). If it would have been rare, it might have eaten the vegetables while waiting for me to eat the thing, just to bulk up.

OK, maybe I exaggerate, but let me just say simply and plainly, the steak was done just right, had a great flavor, and was extremely large (it did hang over the edge of my plate, it wasn’t big enough for its own zip code…).

In short, I left the meal exceptionally well fed.

Then it was on to the meeting.

I liked being an advisor at FarmHouse, not just because of the first class meals, but also because of the meetings.  They are democracy in action.  They are good men, holding up the ideals that they believe in, having discussions about what they mean and translating it into real life.

Our folks in Washington could learn something from these FarmHouse men.

Truth be told, while supper was a meal par excellent and the meeting was an example of good government in action, the more important thing to me was seeing the guys.  Over two years of seeing and talking to these men every week, you kind of miss them.  It was great to hear how Joe faired his first year, what Randy’s plans for the summer were, how Luke was going to balance his jobs and milking cows, how Mike was going to relax after his busy year, what Brandon was planning on doing with his final semester, what Tyler was planning for his next practical joke, harassing Dan about anything inparticular, getting caught up with Leighton and his lovely girlfriend, hearing the latest antics of JB, hearing how Mr. Kaare brought agriculture on the Minneapolis campus in a big way, catching up with Ben and Jared, hearing what Justin and Pete had planned for the summer, getting an update from Mr. Verly himself, visiting with the graduating seniors with the plans for the next year and talking with all of the other guys on their plans, their hopes, and the latest in bathroom humor.

As always, it was a humbling experience, but then I’m lucky that way, for I’ve got much to be humble about.

 One of the hardest things in life is leaving home.  Sometimes, it doesn’t matter if it is the first or the thousandth.  

Driving out of the driveway and leaving home that Monday morning was probably close to the thousandth time, but as hard as that first so many years before.  This would be the last time I’d see home in at least six months, it is hard to leave when the spring grass is gracing us with its presence for the first time, know that the next time you see home, that grass will be dead and buried below feet of snow.

It is hard too, to think that I’ll miss another six months of birthdays, barbeques, and family gatherings.

But life outside of home must be lived too.

Heading up the road and through town, I turned onto Highway 59 and headed south in the cool sun of a Minnesota spring morning.

I stopped for breakfast at the bakery in Detroit Lakes, enjoying a good American donut as I rounded the lake, taking the long way around.  Then, on to Highway 10 and through to the cities, stopping as I went, enjoying the day, determined to make it down to the cities to do a little shopping and a little cleaning before the meetings of the afternoon.

After running some errands, made it over to the University of Minnesota, St. Paul campus to have a coffee with friend and mentor Mary.  Mary had gotten me hooked into the FFA Alumni group, sometimes it seemed kicking and screaming, but there none-the-less and very involved.

Over a cup of coffee, we talked about life and dreams.  About the organizations that we serve, or served, and the people that made a difference in our lives, we talked about living lives of purpose.

Too soon, Mary had to run to another appointment, I had to make it to supper.

 Leaving Park Rapids, we were heading towards our final destination on this Sunday drive, a cow pasture.

Well, my brother’s chunk of cow pasture to be more precise.

My brother is an outdoorsman.  He loves being outside.  He hunts about anything that moves.  If you are hungry and see something that you’d like to eat, he’ll help you catch and kill it so there is supper in your skillet (my apology to Howard Mohr).

A couple of years ago, he bought a forty acre parcel of trees and meadows, with enough prickly ash and rocks to make it a challenge.  This was his home away from home.  He, his wife Becky and their two rambunctious boys, Matt and Nick, spent the nights in the trailer house they had placed on the trail leading in, the day trapsing through the trees and brush.

The day before, we were going to barbeque as a family, but Tom, Mary, and their girls were the only ones that could make it.  Sister Margaret was in Europe.  Brother Jaime and his wife Michelle, and nephew and Godson Parker were tending to my newest nephew Trevor who, while in a good mood, was subject to projectile vomiting.  Jack, Becky and Nick and Matt had taken delivery of about twelve hundred trees, sticks with roots really, that must be planted or die.

So if the family won’t come to me, I’ll go to the family.

Driving into the cow pasture, Becky and Nick came out to greet us…and open the gate to make sure that the cows wouldn’t come out.  The nephews seemed excited to see us.  Pulling at my sleeves, they would hardly let me get a welcome out to my brother and sister-in-law before they pulled out into the trees to see their forts and clearing and fight with their stick swords and spears (and did manage to fight off an assault by BOTH of my nephews for the record in a battle that will go down in legend with both sides fighting with small trees…mine just happened to be about nine feet in length…which had its own challenges - you try fighting with a nine foot, three inch in diameter tree in the middle of a forest with two little boys taking pot shots at your knee caps…I digress…).

After the walking tour, it was the four wheel drive tour of the property with both Nick and Matt taking me on tours of the grounds on their Dad’s four wheeler.  Matt even gave me a tour of his Grandpa’s deer stand (Becky’s Dad).

The place is classy.  Like a Sheraton Hotel on stilts.  Chairs, carpeting, shelves, and even a little radio.  Nephew Matthew comes out and hunts with him.

“We found out that you need to have the gun outside of the hole otherwise it gets REALLY loud.” Matt informed me very professionally.

“What do you guys do in here while you wait for the deer?” I asked.

“We have farting contests.” Matt said a little sheepishly.

“You do what?” I asked in amazement.

“We have farting contests.  It really smells.  Grandpa is really good.” Matt said giggling.

Suddenly that roll of toilet paper on the shelf took on a bit of a comedically menacing air.  Speaking of air, we decided to get out of there and head back to home base.

Taking Nick on his ride had its own comedic moments.  As he was directing me down a path surrounded by water on each side, he pointed down a space between several trees…

“Go down there Uncle Mark!” He said with enthusiasm

“Nick, there is water everywhere.  Are you sure that’s a trail.” I asked.

“Not yet.” He replied with all sincerity.

I didn’t follow his suggestion.

Making it back to the car at the end of the visit was bittersweet.  My brother and his family have an admirable redoubt against the cares of the world.  I was glad to share it with them that rainy day.

 Sunday dawned crisp and cool.  A nice early spring day on the upper great plains - on the edge of the prairie and the forest.

Jumping in the car, we made our way east from the flat lands around the farm to the hills and trees to the east.  We went to church at St. Joseph’s, the oldest Catholic Church in the county, about ten miles from the farm.

We wanted an early start - and what better way to start the day then by Mass.

We used to go to St. Joseph’s as a kid, but only on days when field work was required.  Usually, milking meant that the family had to go to 10:30 at St. Micheal’s, but if you had to rake hay or prep the combine, it usually meant a few would go to St. Joseph’s.

Turning back out onto Highway 200, we headed farther east, deep into the heart of the trees and woods of Minnesota.  As we drove along, Dad would retell the stories from my youth, the stories that I never got tired of hearing.  Tales that matched the places along the road - The Ranch, Roy Lake, Zerkle - with events and people from his past and history.

It was a good drive.

We turned on Highway 71 and made our way south, continuing through the trees past Lake Itasca State Park and on into Park Rapids.

We both knew Park Rapids well.  My grandparents, Mom’s folks, lived most of their retirement years in Park Rapids.  We spent many a Sunday and holiday in their back yard and dining room.  We had spent hours at Deer Park, the aquarium, walking up to Pamida, having breakfast at one of the local cafés.

“Where do you want to go - the one on mainstreet or the train one?” Dad asked, referring to two cafés that were well known to us years ago.

In the back of my mind, I pictured the old train depot café as smokey and hazy.  The café on mainstreet I remembered for its great apple dumpling.

“How about the one on mainstreet?” I replied.

“I don’t care, where ever you want to go.” Dad said.  ”Its your choice.  It doesn’t matter to me.  Grandpa used to like the depot.”

“Hmmm.” I said.

“The food was always really good there too.” Dad said.

“Hmmm.” I replied.

“It wasn’t too far from their old house.  Don’t know that I ever got a bad meal there.” Dad said.

“Would you like to go to the depot?” I asked

“Nope, where ever you want to go.  I’m just saying, we can’t go wrong with the depot.  But I’m fine with the one on mainstreet.” Dad replied innocently.

“Hmmmm.” I replied.

“Although that one on mainstreet has got steps.  I don’t know if I can handle those steps today.  Foods better at the depot too.” Dad added…that last comment just to seal the deal.

“How about we go to the depot?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, that sounds ok.  But your choice.  Turn here.  It’s just down the road.” Dad said.

Dad was right, the food was good - actually, I probably had one of the best pancakes I’ve had in years.  And much to my delight, the smoking ban had taken strong hold on the place too.  Instead of seeing a cloud of haze, you actually realized that they had pictures on the walls, great pictures, with a little grim from fifty years of smoke and haze, but still - train pictures from all along the Northern Pacific route, from Minneapolis out to the great Northwest.

 The next twenty-four hours passed blissfully, restfully, at home.

Then it was the next round of visits.  Lunch at the Red Apple with the Colligans - good friends of Dad’s and mine.  Off to Gary and Fertile for time with college friends and their families.  A barbeque with my oldest brother Tom, his wife Mary and their beautiful little angelic children (who now owe me $5 for the exageration…though they remain my two favorite neices).

Then came Saturday night.

I struggled a bit with what I should do.  On the one hand, it was one of the last nights with my family before I went home.  On the other hand, there was a wedding dance in Moorhead, seventy miles away, where a friend was celebrating his nuptuials and a fair number of friends would be helping him celebrate.

In the end, the fact that the bride was a coach for the NDSU dance team was the deciding factor - when balancing friends and families - the chance of meeting single women are ALWAYS the tie breaker.

To the wedding dance I would go.

Luke and Kathyrn know how to throw a party.  The music was great, the drinks were refreshing, the conversation was enjoyable, the sights were…enticing.  It was also the point of the week when I felt very, very old.  These women were all, or most, at least ten years my junior.

Driving back home that night, it was clear that I’m not the man I once was.  I had the face the fact, I’m getting old.  But I also had to face the fact that at thirty-four, there was still a lot of life left in me too.

 Dispite the rain, it was a great drive.

Heading north out of Fargo, by the airport, and across the Red River, I cut cross country on county road 22, my old route home from my unversity days. I must have driven that road well over 150 times in my life - almost once every week through college and quite a few after, not counting the summers.

So much of the countryside hadn’t changed at all, the farmsteads along the way still in various degrees of repair, the towns still seemingly stunted, growing little, but still sticking up bravely.  All the way from county 22 to the turn on Minnesota Highway 9, the fields lay flat and water logged from the all day soaking.  My mind could point to dozens of times that I’d seen that same sight, years before in the back of my memory.

Finally, at Borup (the town, not the release of gas), I turned east and left the Red River Valley.  The land turned a little wilder as I crossed the Twin Valley Prairie, with small stands of trees and the thick grasses having a green sheen underneath them, a sign that spring couldn’t be far away.

Turning north again at Syre, my mind had to tell my foot not to stomp on it…but both were getting antsy, we were almost there.

The last leg of the trip, from Twin Valley to Mahnomen is the longest.  It is the most wooded, the wildest, but also that sense that you are so close, you can smell home - old wood, musty hay, the slough in spring.  The birches were leafing out, the rain had let up to a drizzle, the mind raced to get home.

Turning onto the road home, still a couple of miles away - you could see the homestead.  The machine shed blocking the view of town, the windmill rising as a silluete against the eastern horizon, the house and garage showing through the still barren trees.

It didn’t matter that the road was a mess, that big chunks of dirt stuck to the side of my once clean car, that I was slipping and slidding all over the road, that I was bottoming out on the frost boils.

I was almost home.

True, I’d been home the week before for one night of fitful sleep, but this was the real deal, four days of bliss at home.  Sleeping under the roof that my great uncle crafted and my father built out.  Sleeping in the same room where I had slept as an infant under my parents care.  Eating at the same table where all of us had said grace, and shared meals, and laughed and cried.  The porch with the swing that served as the vehicle that would transport us around the world through our imagination.  The room where I grew up with the desk where I charted out my dreams.

Getting out of my car, the smell of spring on the farm overwhelmed me.  The wet grass, the fresh earthy smell of the slough, the damp smell of the woods in spring.  The sound of the geese on the slough and the frogs croaking from the ditch were the sounds that greeted me, just as they were the sounds that would wake me as a child.

Oh yes, I was home.