Long-distance farm oversight is no easy task

It’s time for another conference call with my three brothers. We’ve been conducting these long-distance sessions periodically for the past couple of years as decisions need to be made about our mother’s care and what to do about various maintenance issues on the farmstead.

This time we’re trying to decide if the 1907 barn that so far has withstood the test of time should get a new roof. Built by my great-grandfather, the ground floor of the barn was shaped out of fieldstone, the loft with strong expanses of rounded beams supporting an arched roof.

Is it worth it to put new shingles on such a massive structure that is no longer used for anything? Frankly, none of us knows the answer to that question, so we’re doing our best to talk to real-estate agents and others in the know about how best to preserve the value of the farm buildings.

I last wrote about the barn 10 years ago when we gathered at the farm to paint the exterior. That project was led by my oldest brother, a house painter by trade who does restorative work on historic homes on the East Coast. My parents were still living on the farm at that time and it was fun to reminisce as we meticulously applied gallons and gallons of white paint across the outer walls.

A decade ago we perhaps envisioned the barn being used again in some capacity, but that hasn’t happened, except for one renter who raised some chickens in the milkroom and then left the place a mess when he moved out.

Managing this 1882 homestead has become more of a burden than any of us cares to admit. The 480 acres of land are leased to the two remaining large-scale farmers in our township. That part of it is simple enough.

The farmhouse is rented out, but being a landlord is a chore. We’ve had three renters in as many years. My middle brother lives a mile down the road, and he’s the one who has to collect the lease payments and house rent. He also plows the snow, fixes the furnace and arranged to have a new roof put on the house last year. At least there’s some return on that investment by being able to rent the house.

The barn, though, is a bigger expense for something that’s no longer used and very likely never will be used to house dairy cattle again. And then there’s the concrete silo next to the barn. I’m not sure what will ever be done with that. It’s useless, too.

Why not sell the farm, you may ask. I suppose we may one day, but we’re not there yet. We all have such fond memories of growing up there, but as time goes on the nostalgia is overshadowed by the responsibility of caring for something that’s now so detached from us.

I’m sure we’re not the only ones wrestling with a decision about the fate of the family farm. Small family farms in northern Minnesota have all but vanished, gobbled up by corporate farmers who do the job faster and more efficiently. Even so, it’s deeply personal for each of us, and not because it was such a wonderful place to call home.

There’s a connection to the land itself that’s difficult to explain, a sense of stewardship and duty that binds us to what our forefathers began. Breaking that tie is something none of us takes lightly.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by email at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com.