"Sterbuck Farm"

It's winter now in Wisconsin

The choices one has in one lifetime--what to go for? What to pass up? What to dream about, but never seriously consider?

For some, nothing is quite so motivating as adversity. As in: a lost job, a broken relationship, grieving from any source--anything producing that overall sense of  "What do I do NOW?"

In the midst of just trying to put one foot in front of another, at times a huge leap is taken.

How this happens, to my belief, is providential. In the late eighties, something bigger than ourselves (the God we believe in) prodded my husband, Ramon, and I into moving forward in a big way--an action we surely didn't feel we had the resources to make, either spiritually or monetarily.

But we were so dejected (from long-term unemployment and then underemployment) that one day we packed up our old camper trailer and left Colorado to drive to Wisconsin, a place we'd never been before. We came here by crazy dreaming--chancing upon rural properties for sale in a national magazine and finding ourselves unable to squelch down the possibilities.

We owned our home in Colorado, and if we sold it, even in the depressed market that ruled the day, we could pay for one of the (suspected ramshackle) dwellings in the magazine. And owe no mortgage at all.

We were on our way then, to find out how ramshackle these places would be, upfront and personal.

Our closer look revealed many a bad bone, sinking foundation, rotting roof. In 1988, farmhouses in rural Wisconsin were a dime a dozen, and probably because their very presence hampered an otherwise good site to build a new and perfect home.

We wouldn't be doing that. We would have to take one of these farmhouses just as it was, and sure enough, one place, "Sterbuck Farm," crooked its finger at us and snared us for its very own. The house was a far cry from our our Colorado home, but it was livable, and priced right.

We regarded the place as a port in the storm of tumultuous times we'd come to know, but if we had been enjoying a perfect life it would have been hard to resist changing it all up for Wisconsin in the fall. Only in calendars had we seen such vivid colors and picturesque views. In Wisconsin, even ramshackle farmhouses emerged as palaces in such heart-sweeping panoramas.

Sterbuck Farm's namesake family had left many decades before. They were the only family to live here any real length of time. The depression of the thirties had sent the family packing; the farmhouse that once teemed with promise was ushered into a stream of short-term renters, coming and going, coming and going--until finally no one came at all.

For thirty years no one lived here. That thought boggles my mind. Thirty years of freezing and thawing, sweating and dripping---the emptiness, the echoing, the loneliness.

By the mid-seventies anyone unfamiliar with the "neighborhood" wouldn't know a house sat back here. Situated well away from a town road, the country lane leading to it had entered the realm of the landscape, with the encroaching forest rendering the dwelling unseen. Only because locals knew it was here did they speak of it to a young couple in search of a home.

It was these two who took the place out of abandonment. They drilled a new well, transformed an outhouse into a chicken coop and changed a pantry into an indoor bathroom, all to plant themselves into the business of hobby farming.

Within five years the couple followed their quest to get more serious about farming, and they turned the house over to another couple.

Anyway you looked at it, an old farm too long neglected spelled WORK. Just when it looked like another string of short-term tenants would spin the place into another abandonment, we came along.

I well-remember exiting the realtor's tiny car and peering about the property. The setting, though stunning, was daunting in its isolation--even in the isolation I believed I longed for. How would we get out in a snowstorm, I wondered. We wouldn't without a snowmobile, I guessed.

We had left our California upbringing many years prior in search of a dreamplace, and this surpassed even Colorado with its promises of a charmed life. As I stood looking about, seeing no other house and realizing that 80 acres was far more than we NEEDED (but came with) I thought about how we were placing ourselves even further from the families we loved. Hard enough the first time, this new contemplation had a stomach-sinking effect.

But a mama doe and her two fawns were feeding in a field, and the hills and woods were feathered with fall colors. An imagined life here was filled with peace and harmony. The potential release from anxieties that had saturated our days now seemed a vivid possibility.

And so we took the leap.

Later, when we learned about our farm's history, we understood that during their hard times the Sterbucks came to believe their best hope to start over was toward an urban destination--Chicago.

How curious this reversal of our roles in the history of Sterbuck farm. Or, I should say, how PROVIDENTIAL.

As described in earlier entries, I've named an impending online store "Sterbuck Farm," in honor of our historical farmhouse, and the women who have lived resourceful lives on places such as this. Very recently, I realized that my previous online "Etsy" shop could serve as a second (or first!) location for my "Sterbuck Farm" store. With a little changing up and tweaking as I go, that site is now open! Please take a look at http://www.etsy.com/ and search SterbuckFarm. And notice that this last picture exemplifies how springtime here fancies up even the humblest of abodes!

A Grand New World



Back at the farmhouse door

And so it goes that each era ushers another one forth, each with intricacies so unique the years prove as almost a grand new world.

Which, of course, each era is.

This house (what you see of it) is our house, in the here and now. It carries our "tone" and reflects our time and needs. For example, we needed a garage; it never had one and we wanted to protect our vehicles. We hadn't paid a lot for our home in its ramshackle condition (in 1988) and not-so-funny-enough the prices of our vehicles (together) were exceeding the cost of the house; it was time to shelter our means of transportation!

So we did that, and we're very happy with the natural flow between the house and the garage. We step off the porch and in a few short strides we are ready to go to town when we need. It's convenient, with pretty green space in-between. It bespeaks our time of wanting to live in seclusion, yet be close to services and a way to get to the road that takes us to them easily.

There is everything to love about this, and we don't want it any other way. But I also enjoy imagining the era before us in our exact spot. For all the imperfections, those years present images of times most of us wouldn't want to live in as our "now" realities, but would still love to immerse ourselves in, if we could, just once in awhile.

It is that very narrow space between the house and the garage that used to be, we've been told, a "road to town"--and not anyone's very private driveway.

I love to picture that!! I love to envision the old-timers of the area sweeping through on horse and cart, or in the first automobiles, to merge with the woods on the way to Boyceville for their weekly needs.

It makes perfect sense, its angle and accessibility. For the few residents of several back roads, this simple rustic road would have saved miles by its weave through this land. Its eventual hook-up at one of our property's corners to another more public byway would have resulted in a shorter way to town and an easier excursion.

We're told this was the way it was, so in my mind I've thought of it often. It's such a narrow trail, but I remind myself the garage wasn't there, and neither a car or a cart would be very wide. It would have taken a generous, practical nature in people to be welcoming to frequent traffic so close to the house, but I've always been told the family who lived here was just that. They were humble Slovakian immigrants, salt-of-the-earth folks, who would never have felt better sending friends and neighbors "the long way around."

In my mind, I've often seen the woman of the house, upon hearing horses hooves or the rattle of a motor, walk to the kitchen door to see who was going to town that day. I've seen her pause long enough to give a wave, or maybe even step off the porch to pass a little small talk. I've seen her in her apron, getting back to work, never disgruntled at the traffic that came her way.

I admit it...I romanticize that image, and it's very true I'm very glad that "road to town" now goes in another direction. I'm not glad Boyceville and other small towns have fallen in viability, no. But it was this spot's very seclusion that lured us into the adventure of leaving all we knew to come to a place we'd never been before. SO, I can't pretend I would love for that road to come by my kitchen door now, no. Not at all.

That era has come and gone, but just as the family who built our farmhouse came from a far-off land to their "grand new world", so did we. We will take it, imperfections and all!

Here is a picture of our house with an open porch, more as it would have appeared in the days "the woman of the house" might have left the kitchen, to give a friendly wave to her friendly neighbors, on their way to town. Or so I imagine, or so I romanticize!!