I’ve been thinking about the farm a great deal lately. If you’re an avid reader, you know I talk about that place a lot, but it was so formative to my being that it’s hard not to. I spent a quarter of a century on that dirt, connecting with the earth and my identity in a way I’ve never experienced anywhere else, and this was one of my favorite times of the year to live there.
Winter was frigid on that northern Minnesota farmstead, but it was undoubtedly magical. Frosted trees, smooth, glistening snow drifts, and a quietness that made you feel important, like your existence was small but meaningful, were some of the things that brought me great joy there. And on the deadest of cold winter nights, I could gaze up at the sky and see billions of stars twinkling in subtly different colors. Sometimes when I’d look up, I’d also see the glow of dancing northern lights. I’d see that incredible phenomenon at least once a year.
Yet, the cold tranquility of a winter’s night wasn’t the most hopeful moment of the year at my childhood home. No, that belonged to Christmas Eve.
One day a year, our family of 30, then 40, and ultimately over 50, would pack into this tiny little home. Despite every inch being covered in wood paneling and trinkets galore, nothing was broken. There were no quarrels among relatives who didn’t get along throughout the year. There were hardly any major arguments. We all simply brought a dish to the party, grabbed a plateful of food, and sat bouncing from chair to chair, catching up with loved ones we hadn’t seen for a year. It was my absolute favorite thing. I loved my family. I still do, but I don’t think I’ll ever experience that magical Christmas again.
I miss the hustle my grandparents would pressure my sisters and me into hours before the event. I miss making those last-minute runs to Walmart so we could have enough punch for everyone. I miss hearing my grandmother bitch about the cost of buying presents for her crap ton of descendants, and smiling because I knew she didn’t mean a word of it. I miss everyone laughing when my grandfather lied and said he put one log in the wood-burning furnace, even though we all knew he’d packed it full so he wouldn’t have to refill the chamber before bed. I miss my Aunt Penny showing up fashionably late with the most delicious food of the night. I miss my cousins all laughing, hugging, and sharing their lives. I especially miss Moriah, who had the thickest Minnesotan accent of all, kindly asking me how I was in the sincerest way. And I absolutely miss my mother, who would wear her prettiest sweater and then proceed to sweat buckets because my grandfather put “one log in the furnace.” God, how I miss this night. God, how I miss this time.
Even though I grew up fearing all these people would hate me when I came out of the closet, this one night was a testament to how they would truly treat me. Nobody cares that I’m gay in my family. They love me for me and love that I’m the me I’m meant to be. I’m lucky in that department. But I digress. Let’s travel back to the farm and see why it’s been on my mind.
The last Benz Family Christmas was in 2019, right before the pandemic started, and the winter before my grandma passed away. It was a bittersweet day because, deep down, we all knew it would be our last with my grandfather. My grandfather died three years prior, my mom two, and my grandmother was becoming increasingly vulnerable after a series of seizures.
I had just graduated from the University of Minnesota Duluth that winter semester and traveled home to Hibbing for the holidays from my rental house. This was the second Christmas after coming out, and the magical night was unfazed. I held my grandma’s hand, a gesture of reassurance we developed, throughout the night because I could tell she didn’t recognize everyone. The seizures I previously mentioned made sure of that. It’s heartbreaking watching the woman who raised you dwindle away before your eyes, but we muscled through it because her last Christmas needed to be just as magical as before.
In a way, I’m happy the tradition ceased that night. I think if it weren’t for COVID, we would’ve tried to keep it alive for another few decades, but the farm lost its magic when Grandma died, and I know Christmas Eve would’ve too. I mean, for me, it has. Which is totally ironic considering I now work full-time at a church, capturing meaningful moments for people I’ve come to love. Which brings me back to that farm.
It’s now my aunt Penny’s home, who is probably the most deserving to call it as such. I have a great affinity for her living there, refurbishing the property to be her forever haven. I couldn’t because every beautiful moment shared on that ranch on the Range has now wilted into wallow for me. I can’t help it. All I feel is sadness when I’m there because my childhood dogs don’t run to greet me anymore. My grandparents aren’t at the door to warmly welcome me home before giving me a docket of chores to check off. There’s no mini-Metropolis asking me to express my artistic creativity in a meaningful and tangible way.
I live in the city of my dreams now, and haven’t been to the farmstead in the forest for nearly half a year, and I’m okay with that. But I’ve been feeling a little hopeless lately, lost in my loss—alone in my loneliness because I’m disconnected from the soil that nourished my being.
Recently, I attended a service at my workplace, St. Andrew Lutheran Church, called Hope for the Holidays. It was a Christmas service for those experiencing grief. It made me realize how important community and joy can be, how those two words can come together and fill a heart with hope, even in the darkest of times. I recognized then and there that, even though I’m currently adrift at the moment, wishing to travel back to Christmas at the Benz Farm, I can’t, but that doesn’t mean I’ll never experience something like that again.
While in limbo for my new tradition, I decided to rekindle our seasonal magazine, hoping the spark would reignite my work for the Daily Planet. I mean, what’s a Superman-inspired publication without hope?
In this refurbished Daily Planet Magazine, you’ll find stories of hope, resilience, community, and how simple things like hobbies and nostalgia-filled corny movies can bring joy to this holiday season. I encourage our readers to dive deeper and remember that we’re all on this floating blue orb together, clinging to hope for the holidays.
