Halloween: Twenty-Five Years on This Farm

It’s a special day here on Infinity Farm. I signed loan papers on this property on the last day of the month. Good for escrow. It was a full moon on Halloween, October 1999. It had been a rough few years, and I had lost so much that I thought I had nothing left to lose. Being the perfect time to start over, I packed my truck with cleaning products, tools, camping gear, and Spam and Hero, my cattle dogs. They were enjoying my midlife crisis in that way good dogs are always ready for a car ride.

I had that glassy-eyed look of someone who didn’t think they could ever purchase horse property, but just did. And by horse property, I mean a small acreage with a shed that I could convert to a barn. And a small house that had been hauled over from an Army base sometime in the 70s. I’d tear out the Pitbull runs first thing because I could see the farm’s potential.

I’d like to say in the years since then, I built a real barn and a nicer house. No. There’s been some updating, but it’s still a humble farm. The potential that I saw was that it could be a real home for me. A place I’d never known before. A few weeks later, I’d built enough fence and hung enough gates to bring the horses out. It was just us that Thanksgiving, but it’s a memory that I love to return to.

I like to think about what I know now that I didn’t know then. Because I approach overthinking like others do golf. It’s my hobby like others collect stamps. I like to sort through memories. I’ve done it my whole life, maybe because part of me still lives on a farm my family lost when I was nine. So that’s how I spent today, visiting with those who have gone on ahead instead of writing my usual Thursday night blog. And now, it’s late and my mind is still wandering.

But no apology. Call it celebrating the Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos). It’s A Mexican holiday where people welcome back the souls of their deceased loved ones for a brief reunion that includes food, drink and celebration. On this anniversary, at this age, it’s become my favorite holiday. Since I’ve lived here longer than anywhere else, it’s natural that the farm feels haunted. It’s just that I like it this way.

I wish we all celebrated the Day of the Dead rather than Halloween. Instead of ghouls and monsters from every B-grade movie leaving kids fearing the dark, maybe we could make peace with change. Not that we wouldn’t dress up like pirates and princesses, but maybe we could share a memory instead of screaming at Hollywood zombies and ghosts. Is this where the fear of dead ones starts with us?

How did we become short-sighted victims of the love we feel for others? In Jewish teaching, the proper thing to say about someone’s passing is “May her memory be for blessing.” That fits me better. When I moved to this farm, it took a while to notice I’d stopped being afraid of the dark. Walking my prairie land, under a blanket of stars, became a solace. I hadn’t known ghosts were such good company.

Most all my birth family is gone now. Lots of my friends are retired, not just from work, but also from farm life. The ones like me, still throwing hay and wrestling feed bags, think about what the future holds. There will be no more colts or puppies for me. And the median age of the herd is high. One by one, they will walk on and join the others. But it’s no reason to be morose. I will say their names for the comfort it gives.

This holiday marks a change of season, and we’ve had our first snowfall. Leaves are down and a thin layer of ice adds sparkle to the fence panels. Pulling on boots and a hat, and heading out to the barn for the night feed was not a chore. I threw some extra hay for the generations of sweet memory there. No tears, just that precious feeling of being home.

There is a poem that sums it up for me, from my book Horse Prayers.

Walking the Dog

There was a message on my phone.
My dog was ready to come home,
they said. It was just her ashes,
they didn’t say. Never one to be

put on a shelf, we took one last
walk together around the farm, her
cremains, I guess, tucked under my
arm. She usually bounds ahead,

turning to make sure I’ll follow.
She usually stands close, lightly
touching my leg. She usually has a
wild rambunctious pride, and I cheer.

Where did she love best? The truck,
yes, she’d be sitting there waiting,
ready to load up. The gate to the
barn; we met there several times a

day. The pond to the west; she’d
splash and bring that wild scent to
bed at night. A prairie breeze kicks
and I can see her profile; nose

lifted, her coat blown back. She’s
facing down the wind. Shall I let
the wind have her now? I stroll
between memories, passing under

the barn tree, swings hanging in the
cool shade. Carrying the weight of
an old dog, nothing left but bones, is
heavier than I expected. Once more,

I wish her lightness from her used-up
body, as I go inside and put the plastic
urn on a shelf by a faded dog bed.
We’ll take another walk tomorrow.

…

An audio version of this essay is available to those who subscribe on Substack.

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