'40 Acres in Bankers' March, 2010 by DHMcCarty

In the 60’s, my father bought 40 acres in Bankers, Michigan. 40 acres of good, rich, southern Michigan dirt.

40 acres is 1/16th of a square mile. It was the size of the typical small family farm at the turn of the century. More than subsistence size but certainly not enough to be a money-making operation. A little something to sell at the Farmers Market and maybe some egg money.

People familiar with my father’s past were surprised that he had purchased land in Bankers. He had a history there and it was none too happy.

My father told me of a time he stood lookout as his father broke into a local country store to steal a loaf of bread. That was all he took.

My father was ashamed to tell me that story.

I looked at my him, “You know Dad, if stealing a 5 cent loaf of bread was all that prevented my children starving, then call me thief. That was quite an act of love.”

It was obvious he had never considered that angle.

His father died in a shack they rented in Bankers in the late 30’s from poison mushrooms he had foraged in an attempt to put food on the table for his two sons and himself. My father nearly suffered the same fate. He lay close to death for 2 days. Those were hard times.

Now he was going back.

He built a scale model of the house he hoped to build on that land, in the basement of our house in Royal Oak. Just the framing, mind you. 1/8” x 1/4” by 6’ sticks representing the 2 x 4‘s. And it was complete down to the roof joists – to scale.

He bought a Farmall tractor. My brother David and I helped him build a small barn to keep it in. My memory of that event was fuzzy at best. I doubt I had much to do with the construction of the barn so I deferred to my brother David for the background.

The wood for the barn was salvaged from a house that was rezoned when I-696 came through Royal Oak. While tearing apart the house, David managed to put a nail through his boot and went off to see Dr Schuneman, after my father trimmed the wood so that he could drive with his pine shoe. Dr. Schuneman met him at the back door of his office, removed the nail and bandaged the foot. David was on his way back to the demolition, posthaste
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He found my father wedged between two ceiling joists hanging by his armpits. His side was badly scraped. He was hypothermic and babbling incoherently. Michigan winters can be brutal.

He had been unable to extricate himself from his precarious position, lacking sufficient leverage.

He never mentioned the incident.

My father retired from General Motors Research after 30 years on the job. He was rewarded a Bulova Accutron watch in appreciation of his service. He never wore it. He fashioned it too uptown for a man like him.

My father never spent a night sleeping under the stars on his 40 acres. The house was never built. He never tilled the land. He never planted a crop. The land was leased out to a local farmer and eventually sold off. And the little red Farmall was sold off to Dick Hugget.

Life sometimes gets in the way.

My father retired from his job as a Tool and Die man at General Motors Research at the age of 52. He got the call of duty (must have been long distance because he ended up in Emmaleena, Kentucky for 10 years) and went off to do God’s work with the Bible Memory Mountain Mission.

Now I’m sitting on 14 acres of NW Georgia mountain farm land, fighting off life with a big stick. I’m not taking any calls

At my Fathers funeral, I gave the eulogy for my family. It was not adequate. He was unique. He never called attention to himself…for whatever reason. This post is my attempt to rectify that failure. I loved my Father and my appreciation for him grew leaps and bounds as I grew older.

The paintings are all by Walter Curlee. Dad would have liked them.