The Old North Forty

Roberta S. Dohse

August 2, 2026

Breezes lift up over the field stretching to the south

Rain is coming and Grandpa is off 

Off to check the north forty

Back in a time when everyone knew

Exactly what that meant.

Back when the churn still sat in the kitchen

And screen doors banged with the slightest wind

And flies crept in to suck the poison 

From ribbons of flypaper hung near the stove

And the phone rang two longs and a short.

When the old Model A still sat in the field

And a lucky man had a small umbrella perched 

Above his head, small protection from the sun 

As long hours were spent, going back and forth

Tilling and planting and reaping.

From time to time I still go out 

To see the old north forty 

A big operator rents it now, and I ache 

That we no longer live off the land,

Our 160 acres that used to be enough.

I miss the old days, even the work

The wonder of growth, the precariousness

Of it all, the soil, the rain, grasshoppers or fire

But oh that precious time with family,

Eating meals together even mid-day.

Animals were still in the barn

Or out in the pastures, heading toward home

As twilight neared or storms threatened

And mom would rush out to beat the rain, gathering

Sheets and clothes left hanging on the line

And sister would run to gather from the garden 

Berries and squash and potatoes for dinner

And when wind picked up or lightning crashed 

We prayed that the crops would savor the rain

And not be blown flat or ruined by hail.

And I still wouldn’t change that life for the world.

The old north forty looks good tonight.

Roberta Shellum Dohse hails primarily from California. After living on a farm in northern Minnesota and in Oregon, she moved to Texas in 1980, attended law school, and has practiced law in Corpus Christi since 1997. Formerly a flight instructor and a college professor, she has always loved to write.