My husband and I bought our farm in Banks, Oregon, 25 miles outside Portland, in 2017. From the start, we dreamed of retiring there and envisioned multiple generations of our family living on the property.
We had plenty of room with acreage, a four-bedroom farmhouse, and a barn. My daughter Maria and her husband Stephen moved to the farm where she ran her horse business while my husband Scot and I lived in Montana, following a job for him.
Retirement took longer than we planned. And we never envisioned living in a multigenerational home.
My daughter paid us rent
We longed for the ease of country living and wanted to help our daughter launch her business: training horses, teaching people to ride, and caring for 20 horses. Maria and Stephen paid rent and did the heavy lifting of farm life. They fixed whatever broke (pipes in winter, the tractor in summer), maintaining the barn and property.
Scot and I loved the space — a hay field, pond, garden, horses, ducks, a white fence, and a red barn that reminded me of the best part of my girlhood. I especially loved a barn in the rain, listening to the plink, plink against its metal roof.
A year and a half ago, when Scot finished his last job, retirement became a reality. We moved to our farm full time, sharing the farmhouse with our daughter, son-in-law, and later, their baby. We planned to build a second small home. Nothing fancy. But the construction bids we received were astronomical. While an even smaller second home than what we dreamed is hopefully in our future, four adults plus one grandbaby under one roof was just right.
We loved cuddling our grandchild
Living with an 8-month-old baby who wasn’t ours was a joy. We cuddled, rocked, read, and sang to him while he slept through the night and passed him back when he was cranky. I took him on stroller walks in the mornings when Maria fed the horses. We talked to the ducks and listened for the barn owl. When he squealed with delight, I was one big grin. Living with our offspring lifted the quiet of our empty nest years. I was absolutely in my happy place.
Of course, there were bumps.
Sometimes the space felt crowded, and I needed more privacy. Most days, the German Shepherds’ hair (they should be called German “Shedders”) clung to everything. Occasionally, dirty dishes waited in the sink too long; shared spaces were messier than I preferred. I had to give up being a control freak. If I needed quiet, I’d read in our bedroom or write at my desk. I’d step outside and remember why we bought the property: to live closer to our loved ones and to the earth.
When I witnessed Maria and Stephen being tender and silly with their son, when Stephen and I cooked dinner together, and when I stood under a star-splashed sky, the inconveniences of us all living in one home felt trivial. I was grateful we made this move.
I grew up living with multiple generations
It’s natural to me to have family on one property. I partially grew up on a family ranch in Tenino, Washington, with grandparents, parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Each family had their own trailer — single-wides with tinny front doors and thin walls. I shared a room with my two sisters in bunk beds stacked three high, me in the middle bunk.
I spent weekends and chunks of summers on that ranch, romping with my posse of sisters and cousins, riding horses, swimming in the icy river, teasing chickens, and building forts out of hay bales in the red barn. I watched calves, colts/fillies, and piglets being born. Countless hours were spent roaming in the woods, talking to fairies, following my imagination. I got to be myself in dusty Wranglers and mud-covered Justin cowboy boots. The Bar P, as it was called, balanced out living in the suburbs with all its rules and the ways I was expected to be a polite girl. The ranch was freedom.
Half a century later, my husband and I created our own multi-generational farm.
My son, daughter-in-law, and 2-year-old grandson live in Southern California and visit when they can. We’ll make room for them if they want farm life too.
Last summer, my son and his family stayed with us, soon after my daughter’s son was born. While my 2-year-old grandson fed the ducks and “drove” the tractor, my daughter nursed her newborn, my son-in-law grilled delicious burgers, and my son told the best stories — my heart boomed. I thought of my grandparents gathering us all around the picnic table or the campfire, and understood to the bone why they cherished having their progeny together. How ranch time was bliss time for them, like it was for me now. How freedom is being outdoors with my family, with room to ponder the sky and dream.
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