Gayla Marty

American elm

Southeast of the Marty farm, in the middle of Art Eiffler's pasture, stood a lone elm tree. It was south of the county line, a gravel road. Cows often stood in the little dot of its shade.

Sometime in September 1976, as I was leaving for college in Minneapolis, I took this photograph. I had to walk onto Art's farm to do it. I must have wanted to capture in one frame Art's tree, which I loved, and the Marty farm.

The hay and corn fields in the foreground are Art's. The elm rises out of his pasture, obscured by corn.

Beyond the elm is a bumpy line of ditch goldenrod, then the spread of our fields rising gently toward the woods. Those were the fields I knew from raking and baling hay. We rotated our crops, so a cornfield one year would probably be a hayfield the next.

Eifflers' elm tree stood not far from a meandering creek, invisible here. The creek began on our land, looped south of the gravel-road county line, and crossed back onto our farm before it angled east, passing under old Highway 61 on the way to Rock Creek.

The trees in the photo appear about to turn colors, close to the equinox.

Despite its isolation, this elm tree was stricken by disease. For years after its death it stood bare and stark against the sky. It was painful to watch, but I was glad the tree didn't just disappear. We got to see its decline over many years, and we got to know it in a new way.

American elm tree, view north toward the Marty farm, ca. 1976. Kodacolor, photo by Gayla Marty.

Get up and go

My mother had turned 20 in the September before this fall photo was taken next to the back door of our house. I was about 9 months old.

Generally I take after my dad, but lucky me, I got my mother's smile! She was a happy young mom in 1958, always on the go.

She didn't have to get in the car to go places. She put lots of miles on her shoes just tearing around the house and yard, cleaning, cooking, mowing, and gardening, running up and down the basement stairway to the washing machine and out to the clotheslines you see beyond the car. She valued the ability to get up and go, and in fact she used that phrase as if it were one word, get-up-and-go.

Mom did drive. She drove to town on business and errands, she drove to church-related activities like showers and music rehearsals, and occasionally, she and her sister drove to the Cities to shop. But mostly she drove to her mother's place for coffee because her mother—only a little farther than a mile away—didn't drive. Mom liked nothing better than to load us kids in the car for a quick trip, maybe half an hour from start to finish. Mom's schedule required fast driving on those gravel roads. The twins and I have clear memories of going so fast over the railroad tracks that our stomachs seemed to sail. It was pretty thrilling.

Margaret and Gayla Marty by the '54 Plymouth, fall 1958. Photo by Victoria or Lorraine Anderson.

Larger than life

Sam Marty grew up when Teddy Roosevelt was president, and the Rough Rider's influence showed. Sam was known for his big personality, animated storytelling and jokes, hunting prowess, and generosity. Everybody in town knew Sam Marty. It was said he would lend you the shirt off his back. In the Marty Brothers farming partnership of 1912 to 1951, he was the extrovert and businessman, the early adopter of modern inventions. Descended from mountain Swiss, he was small, yet larger than life.

Sam was my great-uncle, the older brother of my grandfather. I didn't know either one of them except from stories. My own dad and uncle talked about Sam a lot. They loved and respected their own dad, who was shy and old-fashioned, but they emulated Sam.

His marriage to a beautiful woman who grew up on the farm next door was too short. After the birth of a son, Mamie suffered from illness for years, finally submitted to surgery, and died in Minneapolis in 1930. Her death certificate identifies her malady as acute pancreatitis.

A year later, Sam emerged from mourning to begin another chapter of his life. He, too, had undergone a surgery, something I know only because my grandmother wrote on the back of one of these photographs: "After Uncle Sam's operation, he gained so much so weighed 160 lbs. Had to show it by a picture."

Life had its setbacks, and the Great Depression was escalating, but Sam was not one to go down without a fight. These photos were probably taken by my grandmother, who had come to the farm as a working girl while Mamie was ill and would marry my grandfather a year later. This was the fun-loving uncle who gave my dad and uncle so much energy and optimism, living in the same house where they were born during the dark days of the 1930s.

In 1940, with World War II on the horizon, Sam would build a new little house across the yard and remarry. His second wife was the younger sister of his first wife. During the years of the war and the the post-war, Sam and Margaret made sure there was never a dull moment on the farm. Life was too short to do nothing but work—fishing, hunting, day-trips, and holiday celebrations were required!

Life was indeed too short. On a day in early September 1951, Sam had a stroke and died a few days later. He was only 62. My dad was 14, my uncle was 17, and a light went out of their lives. The next few years were full of hardship, caring for their father who became ill, taking on Sam's workload, and helping their mother keep the farm. Uncle Gaylon went into the army, and my dad fell in love with my mother and took over the farm.

I was born only seven years after Sam died, but his spirit persisted. Because my dad married first, he brought my mother to live in the house Sam built. There I grew up. In the attic, we found things of Sam's—a big watercolor of a little boy in boxing gloves titled The Winnah! and a many-volume set of books by Teddy Roosevelt. In my room was a piece of wood furniture we called Sam's little writing desk, with a matching chair.

Sam Marty, May 1931. Photos by Viola Marty.