Deep Roots

Years later, the barn continues to be a source of comfort

“The barn was very large. It was very he docked tails, clipped teeth, notched gentle pulse of the milking units seemed to be keepold. It smelled of hay and it smelled of ears and castrated the males. ing time for a symphony of intense labor. manure. It smelled of the perspiration of tired horses and the wonderful sweet breath of patient cows. It often had a sort of peaceful smell - as though nothing bad could ever happen in the world.” I cannot recall ever being bothered by the noise or the smell of the pigs. I suppose at that time, I had never known life without those things. For me, being in the barn meant that I had a job and The cows had kind eyes trimmed with long lashes as they patiently waited to be milked. I would be armed with a stiff long-bristled broom, whose handle would tower above me as I swept feed into the mangers. Time had worn the manger with a mix– E.B. White (Charlotte’s Web) there was a possibility of learning someture of acidic silage and licking by sandpaper-like More than once these words have stopped me in my tracks — stretching my mind far into my youth, bringing me back DEEP ROOTS By Whitney Nesse thing new. In our barn, I truly felt as if nothing bad could ever happen in my little world. tongues. Repairs were attempted with a smooth green epoxy liner. In 1991, my aunt and uncle sold their herd. I was to the barns where I spent a significant amount of My parents and grandparents sold the pigs in only six years old; and still, the memories are as if my childhood. I was fortunate enough to grow up on 1993 when I was eight years old. The memories it were yesterday. a livestock farm where my father and grandfather raised pigs and later raised feeder cattle. I also lived a stone’s throw away from my aunt and uncle who were dairy farmers until the early 1990’s. and feelings, however, are as vivid now as they were 27 years ago. As I mentioned earlier, I was fortunate enough to live closely to my dear aunt and late uncle. It was As an adult, raising my own feeder cattle, I find there is nothing quite as peaceful as a barn full of cattle in the mid-afternoon. The chores are done, the cattle have eaten, and an afternoon of ruminating is

From very early on, I was my father’s shadow. My in their barn that my love for the dairy industry the only thing on the agenda. The barn is quiet and father is a fairly tall man and I recall having to jog began; and in my early 20’s, blossomed into fullall is at rest. I usually find myself lingering in the alongside him to keep up with his swift pace. We time work in the dairy industry. For a number of barn during those hours, watching my cattle. had a long, narrow farrowing barn with an attached nursery. It was red with white trim. On the south end of the building there was a large old elm tree with a tire swing hanging from a branch which stuck out like an old, gnarled, boney finger. years I worked as a relief milker, herdsperson, and artificial insemination technician in eastern Wisconsin and central Minnesota. The sweet and sour smell of a dairy farm always fills me with nostalgia. My mind’s eye is ushered As I watch the cattle calmly lying in their deep bed of cornstalks, chewing their cud, eyes only half opened, I breathe deeply — soaking in the peaceful atmosphere. I don’t believe there is a more pure form of peace than the peace which is given by the

Upon entering the barn there was a small office back to my aunt and uncle’s barn, where the 30 Creator to the caretaker in these quiet moments. which contained a desk. There was a calendar and a harvest gold-colored rotary dial phone on top of the desk. A few of the desk drawers were used to store brown glass bottles of different sorts of medicine and milking cows stood in their stanchions tail to tail and the bright lights illuminated a white limed center aisle. The hum of the vacuum pump and the Whitney Nesse is a sixth-generation livestock farmer who is deeply rooted in her faith and family. She writes from her central Minnesota farm. v vitamin injections. There were pasty orange livestock markers; and every spring, housed a little family of mice whom I would regularly check on. They made their nest in a bed of chewed-up papers in the A passing so young farthest reaches of the desk drawer. Occasionally, when the mother mouse was home, I would hold her (which Grandpa was never pleased with). My father would work at a brisk pace in the brightly-lit farrowing barn while I sat in a farrowing crate holding the piglets. Their plump, pink bellies were full of milk — continuously being warmed by a heat mat. Sometimes I got to be Dad’s helper. Standing in the crate, I would hand him piglets as By KRISTIN KVENO The Land Staff Writer This spring I had the opportunity to head out to a farm near St. George, Minn. and interview the Dummer family about their maple syrup business. Matt and his wife, Nicki were so welcoming and gave me a tour as well she felt to be raising crops and animals with the family she held so dear. The love she felt for her family, the farm and her faith were evident in just our short time together that spring afternoon. Nicki passed away on June 6 in a tragic accident. Her legacy New ground as explained the maple syrup making process. Right away, you could sense the immense pride that Matt and Nicki had in conwill continue in her precious children that seemed to be filled with that same love for family, faith and farming that she exuGUEBERT, from pg. 4 tinuing the family tradition of berated with so much joy. Our Should we believe what she said or what we see? We are free to choose. We’re also free (the freest in the world, most of us believe) to find new ground where every American can stand together in true greatness. The only thing stopping us is us. The Farm and Food File is published weekly through the United States and Canada. Past columns, events and contact information are posted at www.farmandfoodfile.com. v producing maple syrup each spring. Their kids, Zach, (age five), Luke (age three) and Leah (one and a half years old) loved helping with the maple syrup making and were eager to show me how it’s done. I had the chance to walk with Nicki out to check on the tapped maple trees. It was during that time she told me how blessed Photo by Kristin Kveno The most recent issue of The Land featured the Dummer family’s maple syrup operation. On June 6, Nicki Dummer (far right) was tragically killed in a motorcycle accident. thoughts and prayers go out to the Dummer family and their community. A GoFundMe page has been set up for the family. It can be accessed at https://www.gofundme.com/f/matt-amp-nicki-dummer-family?fbclid=IwAR0f8Koy hVpOO5pL1YrfZMTXCKD29shvIz0jo74tk1Yxvb-qt4y2sTbKMmw v