It would be admirable, if not romantic, to paint this decision like a scene from my favorite teen movie, Endless Love. The parents of Brooke Shields were ethereal, democratic friends to their children. If this was a scene in that movie, there would have been a family meeting in the living room where discussions of raising our own organic food and creating an inspiring artist commune for our friends were defenses for this radical act. Instead, we picked up mid-school year with the hope that putting 20 miles between my dad and his favorite watering hole would bring the same serenity to our days and nights that this rural backdrop provided each morning.
Besides our family home (my grandparents owned it before selling it to their oldest son in 1963), we left behind a colorful history. Nights so threatening with emotional fireworks, that I once called our family doctor for assistance. All important numbers were written on the phone for easy access – doctor, grandmas, grocery store, mom’s beauty shop, and the VFW. I told the doctor that my dad was sick again and needed a shot. I don’t remember how he reassured me that my dad would sleep it off, but tomorrow came and so did the routine. My mom, with her high frosted hair and cigarette in hand, became a midnight travel agent, taking us to my aunt’s apartment in Sioux Falls or my uncle's home in Minnesota until things settled down. One escapade had us in a garage with only a light bulb for heat as the real fire burned in my father.
Our move to the farm had nothing to do with the raising of crops, animals or children. It was about the survival of a man and his family.
Dad's continual need to “celebrate” did not stop once immediate neighbors and establishments were removed. The trip home just became more dangerous. Car wrecks and absences became passé. Also, there were bars in another town only 5 miles away. Here my father would find the drama he sought. There is a snobbiness about South Dakotans. I see it in the workplace and with acquaintances. Hell, I am the queen of this code of conduct. We want people to “pay their dues.” One cannot enter a job or relationship assuming equality of those that have been their longer, even if you in a superior position. “Keep your head low, do not tell anyone you know anything and over deliver.” This was my father’s advice to his children, and it is still applies in almost every working and personal relationship. Forced personal intimacy is an ugly thing.
One bloody episode happened because of my father’s excess of drink and lack of adherence to his own rhetoric. Drunk, loud, and “new to these parts,” my dad got into a brawl. I remember my mother on the other guy’s back followed by a desperate need for a doctor. My brother and I drove the car home. I did the foot feet and he sat on my lap and steered. If you add 9 and 7 together, you get 16 - an age that most children learn to drive.The first time I ever saw my father cry was the day he sobered up. It seemed like the FBI had arrived. Instead they were men my father had known for years. Men he may have even once shared a drink. Now they represented a shot of AA. My mother in a fog of her chain smoke, exhaustion and love, looked grey. It was as if someone had “sold the farm.”
My father has been sober for 38 years, and the color came back to our family. I have never understood those that continually use the excuse, “I am from an alcoholic family” to explain away their own frailties. I am a textbook chapter for the oldest daughter of an alcoholic. I have and continue to make decisions that are injected so deep into my DNA because of certain losses and experiences, but they are mine. They are not the sins of my parents. My father really believed that if he quit drinking, he would die and, yet, he still chose the prospect of death in order to save his family. Instead, I take away his ability to risk it all for the good of the others. From both of my parents I learned to unconditionally love, forgive and reinvent.We have never resembled that family in Endless Love. Instead we were a bit more like Green Acres. Not only is our farm distinguishable because of it beautiful green barn and out building, but we are a family who celebrate a worldly education along with our rural roots. My parents raised children who all graduated from college, crave domestic and international travel and have sophisticated taste in shoes and coffee (ok, that is just me).
However, like the roots of the corn and beans that surround B Bar B (the actual name of the farm), our roots are here too. My brother is convinced that it is all too much for my parent now. Dad with his cancer and bad heart, mom with her anxiety, and both are approaching 70. My brother’s children are young, and he works like a dog, I can understand his desire to lighten the heaviness he feels in his obligation to keep the farm’s upkeep. He has encouraged my parents to sell the farm.I can’t do that. The oldest daughter, the city kid, the one who resented the initial move the most, I can’t imagine our lives without this farm. It has become the hub of extended family gathering. Just last week, B Bar B hosted almost the entire Schetnan clan – close to 40. A true family rebellion. My cousins, now parents themselves, watched their children ride lawn mowers, ATVs, mules and golf carts. The hayloft is still the favorite place to swing – and fall. This is where my children learned how to drive, shoot and fish, and this is where they continue to learn personal integrity, work ethic, family accountability and unconditional love.
“To sell the farm” would be the literal end to my father. It is the breath of these moments and memories that keep him alive. 
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