For a time he let cattle and pigs run freely in the barn. He rented the house out, sometimes to two families at a time. But loving care was a thing of the past. Scraggly trees have taken root along the stone foundation of the barn. Sections of the roof have failed and rain and snow have turned the haymow into a molding wasteland.
Burdocks grow through broken windows.
Fences lean, boards have been torn out of the walls. The house desperately needs repair. Although none of my sisters or I moved back to Upper Michigan, my lifestyle comes closest to what we knew on the farm. I go back to Stephenson once or twice a year, drawn there by some powerful force. I sit in the haymow of the great barn and feel the souls of my great grandfather, my grandfather, and my father there with me.