Truth from the Trenches by Melissa Hart 

 

I grew up right around the corner from a huge farm once called Meadowbrook Farm. When I was a little girl we would drive by Meadowbrook and look at the draft horses that dotted the pastures around this big, beautiful showplace.

As you turned in the drive, two brick pillars on either side with an engraved farm sign on each greeted you. A long paved driveway framed by white board fences led to a huge barn flanked by two homes; this place was a landmark between Fowlerville and Howell. I loved this place. I wanted to be in the center of it. I wanted to drive up that driveway and make it my home. It was eye candy to a little girl whose passion was rooted in agriculture.

In the 1970s, draft horses were replaced by Angus cattle and the engraved farm signs said “Premier Angus.” Big black bulls roamed their paddocks and lots of black cows with their babies were scattered through the green pastures that surrounded the farm’s center.

This was the place where my childhood friend spent time getting her cattle ready for the national Angus shows. Reno, Oklahoma City, Denver, Louisville, Fort Worth – she went to all of the famous cattle shows with her family as they exhibited the Premier Angus herd and won banner after banner after banner. I loved looking at their trophies and hearing about her trips across the country, always wondering what it would be like to attend a big livestock show.

When the Premier Angus heyday diminished, some of the farmland was sold to a local crop farmer, and what wasn’t sold was leased to him. The barns were turned into offices and the homes, rented out. My dad called recently to catch up on things. As he was updating me on happenings in the neighborhood, he told me that “Premier,” as we have always referred to it, had been sold to the farmer who had been leasing it. The barns, the homes – all of it – was purchased by this farmer.

This was a good thing because under his ownership, this land would remain farm ground, never to be consumed by housing projects.

This landmark that I drove passed many times while growing up was important to me because it was constant. It was always beautifully kept, productively used and was a part of my childhood landscape that never changed.

While working on a research project, I was combing through some old Milk Messenger magazines from the early 1900s. One of the faithful advertisers was Cluny Stock Farm, owned by R. Bruce McPherson. In the February 1920 issue, there was a feature story on the farm.

My curiosity piqued by their constant advertising, I decided to read the first couple of paragraphs about the farm: “One of the attractive points in this interesting center of the breed is ‘Cluny Stock Farm,’ located six miles west of the thriving little city of Howell on the old Grand River Road.”

My mind instantly began searching Grand River, west of Howell. I knew that road by heart. Where was this farm? I couldn’t come up with it, so I figured it must be gone by now. So I called my dad and asked him where this would have been. “That’s Premier,” he said. “R. Bruce McPherson owned it; he was a big shooter.”

I got off the phone and read the rest of the story about my beloved childhood landmark, which I thought began as a draft horse farm but instead had its roots in the Registered Holstein business. My sweet childhood landmark that had gone from Belgians to Angus to corn was once the heart of the Holstein industry in Michigan. Forty-five years later, now, more than ever, I want to drive up that paved driveway framed by white board fences and be in the center of that farm. It still is – and I guess, always will be – a beloved piece of my childhood memory bank that has recently taken on a fresh coat of appreciation.

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World.