Arup N. Garson

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Preface: This story is provided for reading enjoyment and may be copied for that. It is not to be published and sold for profit. The text is provided to me (Fred Matson) and my WEB site by the Beatrice (Garson) Johnson family. Arup Garson is Beatrice's father. Beatrice is my father(Roy H. Matson)'s 1st cousin. In 1986, Beatrice and Juneau Johnson published a very thorough genealogy called "Lilleaasen".  Arup N. Garson was a banker. This story about a farmer and his often wayward attempt to be successful is written from a banker perspective. Dan Brock is not a real person. The story fits even today.     

The Story begins by Arup N. Garson........

Farming today is expressed in terms of production; cost of production; erosion; farm credits; farm relief; mortgages; moratoriums and foreclosures. The above terms constitute only a fraction. In order to consider yourself well posted on the subject you must also know something about soil conservation; balanced rations; cow testing; stock judging; farm markets, and many others.

The term occupying the center of attention-the one around which all the others seem to rotate, is farm relief. It seems to be an accepted proposition that the farmer has slid off the road to prosperity, and into the ditch of financial distress. After blaming some of the first mentioned terms for putting him there, we try to employ all the others and many more to get him out.

How he will fare after he is again on the road does not come in for so much attention. However, that IS important. It might depend on if he is a good driver. And it certainly must be necessary that he is, financially, a sober driver.

I have observed farming from many angles. First as a boy on the farm, and later as a country banker, loan inspector, and collector.

I sometimes like to go back to the farm where I spent my boyhood days, roaming over the hills, mentally shaking hands with each familiar spot. The scenes are familiar, but somehow the farm itself is not the same. There is something lacking. The atmosphere is different; and the farm has changed, like a lot of farmers have changed; in fact, like farming itself has changed. There are ditches in the fields. The sol1 looks thin. The crops lack the robustness of former years. The buildings lack paint. Some are in disrepair. The silo sags tiredly against an equally unambitious looking barn, and in general the whole place presents a melancholy look of defeat. It looks for all the world as if the whole farm has lost its rugged character of yester-year, and is looking for some thrifty relative to put it back on its feet.

My father bought that farm some forty years ago, trading in a smaller one close to town, because he did not want to raise a family of eight within walking distance of the village where they might become spendthrifts and loafers.