Anyway, eventually a more suitable farm house was constructed, and another couple generations of my ancestors were raised. The first house burned in 1917, and this is the second true house on the place. You can see how much better things are here than in the first picture. In those days you were probably considered high-class citizens if your chickens and pigs had a porch to live under.
The farm stood empty for a few years around the great depression, but then Grandpa decided to move his new bride back to the ‘home place’ again. Dad and his 6 siblings were raised there on Grandma’s home cooking, southern preaching, and rows and rows of cotton. You can certainly see Grandma’s influence on the place. Notice there is an actual yard with trees, and the pigs and chickens now have a barn to live in instead of under the porch.
Grandpa added on to the family farm by purchasing much of the adjoining land, including the place where I grew up just down the road. My parents now own those pastures that were once Grandpa’s, plus several more added throughout the years.
Finally, there’s us. Me and Mr. HH. Dad probably thought I would marry some computer-nerd engineer with a high-powered job and never look back. Boy did I fool him! I got my engineer husband, but with an little twist. Mr. HH’s own family farm is just a few miles away, and he’s brought me back to my roots in more ways than one. We decided all that work just looked like too much fun, and added our own pastureland to the list. Now totaling several thousand acres, the ranch is home to 5 or 6 herds of black Angus cattle, along with hay fields, river-bottom meadows, a few creeks, and more deer and turkeys than we can count. Most of the cattle wear Dad’s Rafter H brand, but there’s also a new herd baring the DoubleH. Check out our family brands, from Great-Grandpa’s, Grandpa’s, to Dad’s to ours.
Now, that’s not the whole story – of course not. That’s what the blog is for!