My father’s death yesterday ends one saga and begins another. His grandfather purchased the farm in 1895, and the core property has remained continuously with the Wilcox clan. At one time, the expanse topped 200 acres. But portions were sold off decades upon decades ago, leaving 100 acres—60 of which is for farming and the rest is woodland.
Dad chose not to leave the portion over which he has title—nearly two-thirds, including the buildings—to family. His pastors, a married couple—and not their church—are the inheritors. The arrangement isn’t some surprise; he made clear his intentions years ago.
I would have preferred that the farm stay within the family. But Dad never asked my opinion, and I offered none—nor would I have done so, particularly as his health declined. I am no grave robber, so to speak, and I hadn’t been home to Maine for decades. Rightly, I had no say in the disposition of the property.
Something else: Pastors Matt and Kathy made significant sacrifices to care for Dad during the final 40 days of his life—from when life support ended to his last breath. One, and often both, of them stayed in his home. He was looked after 24 hours a day. Pastor Kathy livestreams a daily devotional, which she often did from my father’s room, and when feeling well enough he would share something on camera with the audience.
At Dad’s request, nothing much will happen with the farm until someone sorts through all the personal affects, some of which belonged to grandparents and other relatives. My sister Nan, hugging our father in the Featured Image, will be in Maine some time later this month. She has a summerlong project, while working her full-time job remotely, of sorting possessions. Good luck, Sis.
I used Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra to take the portrait, on Feb. 18, 2024. Vitals: f/1.7, ISO 1000, 1/125 sec, 23mm (film equivalent); 5:23 p.m. EST.