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Thinking of Others
By Marie Craig
My family of four lived in Columbia, S.C., from 1979 to 1993. Many things happened and changed during that time period: our teenagers grew up and moved on to their own lives, recession, change of Presidents, and the Persian Gulf War.
We lived one mile from Fort Jackson Army Base and could hear them yelling out loud words as they exercised. Our church was within walking distance of our home, and we had many good friends there. Some of the officers at Fort Jackson attended our church. I was the organist, so in sitting up front, I was aware of the personal stories of the members of our large congregation. Lorraine was my friend and I always enjoyed seeing her sitting with her Army husband, Jeff, at each worship service.
We were all worried about the Persian Gulf War which was in the summer of 1990. It was scary to think of our country going to war and especially because there were many military couples in our congregation who would have to separate because of military activation. Jeff got his orders that he would be going to this war scene but had a month before he must leave. As I looked into the faces of our church members, I had great trouble looking at this young couple who faced separation and possible death or injury.
Week by week went by and the dread was intensified. The last Sunday they were together was hard on all of us. I figured the next Sunday with him gone, that she would just skip church because it would be too hard. But, no, there she was all smiles, and instead of sitting alone, she chose to sit with a single woman about her age who had very few friends. Lorraine chose to become a friend to someone who needed attention. I’ve been impressed by this act of kindness and service.
As you recall, the war was short, and Jeff was soon back with her. They were both valiant church members.

The End of
the Family Farm
By Julie Terry Cartner
Some things you never forget. After Dad died, and Mom was struggling to take care of the family farmhouse and gardens, she reached a point when she just couldn’t. “I have to sell it,” she said to me.
“I know,” was my reply. Selling a family home is never easy, but this property had been in my dad’s family for almost 400 years. Being the generation to let it go was simply failure. Mom had offered it to my siblings and me and then to our cousins. But circumstances, financial and otherwise, family commitments, job responsibilities, life in general all conspired to make it impossible for any of us to take over the farm. Nobody wanted it more than I, but it wasn’t possible.
The farm sold; the house would belong to outsiders for the first time in its existence. We retained a couple of acres of farmland with the hope that one day we’d have the money to build a small house to share.
Years later the hope died. “We need to sell the property,” my brother said. I’d been through this once. I’d remained strong for my mother though it broke my heart. I didn’t want to do it again. But common sense prevailed, and we sold our last slice of our home.
Gone are the days when the children remain on the family farm and continue the farming tradition. Many don’t want to lose their childhood homes, but the same factors prevail – jobs, families, and life in general – and they feel they have no choice. Small farms struggle. Farming is expensive. Farm equipment costs more than houses, and farming is far from a sure bet. Farmers have no control over the weather and other aspects of nature. Equipment breaks down and needs to be repaired. Seeds, fertilizer, and lime are expensive. And the children, realizing the heartbreak of farming, grow up and move away.
And so, one by one, the family farms are falling by the wayside. Instead of growing hay, corn, or soybeans, the rich soil is growing housing complexes, apartments, condominiums, warehouses, and stores. Those beautiful old farmhouses which once were filled with the sounds of slamming doors, pounding feet and laughing children are being razed. They are not energy-efficient enough to save. The many windows, once open to coax in summer breezes, create an energy nightmare, and the practical thing is to demolish them.
The stately oak and graceful willow trees are not immune to the carnage, nor are great-grandmothers roses, lilacs or gardenias. Gardens are replaced by parking lots and pavement. The old trees are replaced by trendy landscaping. The old way of life is gone just like the houses, gardens and farms.
Such is progress, I suppose. But as I drive down the roads of Davie County, and I see the For Sale signs in the farm fields and the weathered farmhouses wilting under the power of old age, my heart grieves. I know the pain of being the generation to lose the family farm and home. It hurts. And so, my heart hurts for every farmer who put his heart and soul into the often unforgiving soil and yet still desperately loved every acre. I can see his shoulders sag as he realizes he’ll be the last. His children and grandchildren will not farm the land. He understands, but he grieves.
My heart hurts for the farmer’s wife, who raised her family in the old farmhouse, who worked daily to provide hearty meals for her husband, who toiled daily to keep the house and clothes clean, who earned her own blisters growing, harvesting, and preserving the food that would carry them through the winter, and who often got an additional job outside the farm to help supplement their income, and who understands her children and grandchildren will not grow up on this farm she loves so much. She understands, but she grieves.
And I worry. I mourn the loss of that life, but I fear for our future. We can’t eat buildings, stores, or parking lots. When all the farms are gone, what will we eat? What country will be feeding us? Shouldn’t we be doing something to help the farmers succeed?

A Gift of Eighty Years
By Gaye Hoots
This year, most of my class of 1963 are celebrating our eightieth birthdays. We have been blessed with eighty years of life, families, careers, homes, friends, church, community support, and freedom. I spent my first six years on a farm with my parents and grandparents, fortunate to have their protection. We had everything we needed, and most of it we grew ourselves. I was free to ramble and explore my surroundings and test my skills if I observed a few safety precautions, respecting the bull, the electric fence, and the directives given by the adults. I avoided risks with the bull and the electric fence but encountered challenges with following directives.
When we moved to Marchmont and I started school, I grew up fast. We had chores and began to work the crops. A man who worked for Dad, and to whom we were attached, was murdered, leaving his wife and small children with no support. Another safety issue occurred with a man living on the property, but Dad always handled things and kept us safe.
I loved school, and we were fortunate to have good teachers, coaches, and role models. Two events stand out in my memories: in fifth grade, a classmate married a much older man, and another classmate accidentally shot his mom trying to prevent her from leaving home with two men. Not everyone was as fortunate as we were. After sixth grade, my life revolved around basketball.
High school years went quickly. I married at seventeen, graduated, and within a few years had a family. Many of my classmates married young, and many went to college before starting families. Several served in Vietnam, and our views were conservative. I don’t remember any protests, although that did not mean we approved the war, and if any of us were hippies, I missed seeing it.
Employment opportunities enabled us to support our families, purchase homes, and sustain a high standard of living. Many of us weathered storms, including divorce, losing children, or grandchildren to death or serious health issues. Our class had a high percentage of those in service careers and many others who served in community positions and helped to raise several generations into a productive lifestyle.
I am sure every class had similar experiences, but ours had a high level of maturity and ambition, and when we were inducted into the National Honor Society, our number doubled that of the previous classes. That wasn’t a requirement, though, for many who were still playful and not focused on grades became serious adults who managed to provide well, working independently and giving a lot back to our community.
Most of us are retired now, with families who carry the torch and grandchildren raising families of their own and contributing to their communities. I have two great-granddaughters, one of them nineteen years old and in college to pursue a degree in education.
Many of us gathered recently to celebrate with Charles Crenshaw, who taught and coached hundreds of children in Davie County. We were fortunate to have him and other educators in our class, and grateful for good health to celebrate together. I will be eighty in July, and I am thankful for each year I have been given. Our lives are not perfect; our country is not perfect, but I am thankful for my life and my country.