The Farm Home

By Mrs. A.J. Wilder, Rocky Ridge Farm

We all, at times, have had the longing that Robert Burns so well expressed when he said, “Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us, to see oursel’s as ithers see us.” And lately I have had a glimpse of how we, as a class, appear to strangers, not merely strangers so far as acquaintance goes, but strangers to our life and customs.

Friends from Switzerland, motoring thru from San Francisco to New York, broke the journey by a visit to Rocky Ridge Farm. Their account of the trip was very interesting, but a part of it has given me a picture of farm folks which is not at all pleasant to look upon.

“So many farm people from adjoining states were camping at Colorado Springs,” said Mme. Marquis. “And they brought so much of their work with them that I do not see how the vacation could do them any good. They brought such quantities of luggage, everything from their washboards and tubs to their talking machines. The women did the washing on those glorious mornings, rubbing away on the wrinkle boards, and they spent the most of the time left sitting around in camp talking to one another. I heard one woman say, ‘No, I haven’t been up Pikes’s Peak. It costs $2 to go up, and that’s too much money.’ And so, having come all the way to the foot of the Peak, they missed the climax of the whole trip, because it would cost a couple of dollars more.

“It seemed to me that they had worked hard all their lives, and at last they had reached the point where they were able to leave all their cares behind them, to get into their own motor cars and take a trip for pleasure and adventure. And then, at the last moment, they let their lifelong habits of pinching the pennies spoil it all. And Oh! Those farm women looked so worn and tired.”

The Man of the Place and I once went on a picnic fishing trip, with a family who were friends of ours. And listening to Mme. Marquis tell of these women on their camping trip to Colorado Springs, brought back to me the feeling of disillusion and utter weariness I experienced then. I had expected a relaxation and rest, but instead there was the cooking, the care of the children, washing of many dishes and making of beds, all to be done in the most difficult manner possible. If we had stayed long enough so that I had been obliged to do a washing I believe I would have wished to feed myself to the fishes. Once was enough. It was never again for me.

M. and Mme. Marquis were making the journey across the United States in the care for the sake of becoming acquainted with the people at home, and we took them with us to camp-meeting and to an all-day singing, picnics and on short trips here and there.

“What do you think of us?” I asked M.Marquis. “How do we impress you?”

“Well, if I can explain,” he answered with his delightful accent. “You are a very nice people. I have studied the faces in the crowd and they are good faces, fine and beautiful, some of them. But you all seem to take your pleasures so sadly. You appear to be quite happy and contented, but very sad. There seems to be a spirit of sadness over it all. Do you not fell it?”

I was obliged to admit that I did, even within myself. Do we always carry our work and our sorrows  with us, I wonder, as we did on the fishing party, and as the tired farm women did at Colorado Springs? Is it the constant, unrelieved carrying about of our burdens that has caused our lives to be permeated with sadness, so that it is felt by a sensitive person seeing us for the first time?

Another thing was revealed to us about ourselves during the visit of these strangers. That is that we have grown careless in our manners. They had time always for an exquisite courtesy, being never too tired or hurried to show their appreciation of a favor or to do a kindness when the chance came. Their courtesy never failed, even when the machine broke down on rough roads, or in the rush of farm work, in which they eagerly took a part.

“We are all so careless about those things,” said The Man of the Place to me. “ I think we ought to try to do better.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Let’s take time to be at least as nice as we know how to be. And after this, when I go on a vacation I am going to leave my ‘wrinkle-board’ behind.

After all, a vacation is not a mater of place or time. We can take a wonderful vacation in spirit, even tho we are obliged to stay at home, if we will only drop our burdens from our minds for awhile. But no amount of travel will give us rest and recreation if we carry our work and worries with us.

Mrs. A.J. Wilder. "The Farm Home." Missouri Ruralist (October 20, 1919): 22.  CLICK HERE to see this article as it originally appeared in the Missouri Ruralist.

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