It's moving day. March 1st.
There used to be a lot of people who lived out in the country. The reason was simple. It took a family to farm 160 acres. The man power it took to take care of the land, the crops, and the horses, required a lot of people.
Traditionally and even to this day, almost all farm leases, verbal or written, run March 1st to March 1st. So when farms changed hands, either by selling or leasing to someone else, everyone moved on March 1st. My Dad had told me that it was not uncommon to be traveling down the road with most of your possessions in a horse drawn wagon, and meet several other families on the road also on their way to the 'new' house, all with everything they owned tied to, and in the wagon.
I can only guess that it was an emotional time for everyone involved. Some would be improving their lives and others would be sliding further down fortunes ladder. I'm guessing the tears that flowed mixed in with the inevitable mud that March brings to Nebraska. Dad moved a half a dozen times from the time he lived in the Riverside area, where he was raised, to where we live now. Dad's moves were mostly for the better each time, as he moved his way up.
At the age 56, I have escaped having to move on March 1st. I have lived on this farm my entire life. I hope to move from here someday, when I get old enough to retire. I say hope, not that I want to leave, but that the alternative to retiring isn't atractive.
There was an unwritten rule that applied to the farm pets on moving day. The dogs go with the family, and the cats stay with the farm.
Thinking about it here, I'll bet the reason we didn't move much in the horse and wagon era, was because Mom loved to play her piano. A Baby Grand.