Goodbye Little Farm

Tomorrow I will travel halfway around the world to embark upon an incredible journey of learning a new culture, meeting new people, growing as a professional, and hopefully creating life-long memories.  Stateside I leave behind great friends, family, things and places I cherish and look forward to returning to one day.  As I board the plane I also know I say goodbye to one of my favorite things/places ever.  The Family Farm in rural Wisconsin.  The farm and the experiences I had there – from a young age until now – is and will be a lifelong memory. As I pursue new ventures/memories I think it only appropriate to speak of closing out another one, before it is sold in the next few months.  FYI: This will likely be one of my longer blog posts and yet I hope you enjoy the text – if not the pictures!

Freshman year of high school I was asked to write a descriptive paper about anything I wanted.  I remember the teacher commenting, in his nearly monotone voice, to think of a place or thing that ‘when closing your eyes, you see in perfect details’.  I instantly knew I would write about The Farm.   It was probably the only paper I completed with such vigor and purpose on the good ‘ol Apple IIGS.  I proudly submitted it and even remember the excitement of  delivering the graded paper to my grandma (probably the first assignment I gave her since I stopped finger painting).  I think I got an A-, one of my highest grades in Freshman English (reading and writing weren’t quite my favorite classes).  I was so proud to share this 1.5 page double spaced assignment because it was about the Farm - Grandma’s Farm.  Before getting to some of the revised details on my paper and how I saw The Farm, it’s important to give some background details on its establishment and particularly the farmhouse surrounded by the 100 acres.

 

 

 My grandpa, John Horn, was fixing it up for a number of years with the purpose of him and my grandma, Juliana, to enjoy in their retirement.  He added plumbing in the house, a modern kitchen, built a full wrap-around porch, changed the direction of the staircase, and even built an additional sitting room with a stone fireplace from rocks he found on the land.  In the fall of 1978 – while working on the house - my grandpa passed in the same place he hoped he and my grandmother would enjoy the end of life. He had countless other projects in mind and finishes to complete before he passed away in 1978.  My grandma, with help of my parents, held onto this place and throughout my childhood it existed in the state my grandpa had left it – incomplete projects and finishes; but rich with warmth and character.

While I was in elementary school I remember my grandmother would pick me up and take me to the farm with her and Johnny B (Johnny B was the grandfather I knew, as she - a widow - married a widower in 1981). At least, every month they would go for a long weekend and each month they would rotate which of the 3 grandsons (my 2 brothers and I) would get to go with.  I, of course, loved the attention of my two grandparents – what grandkid wouldn’t? And yet, I also have memories that could only happen at the farm, whether it be chasing after a kitten - I got to “borrow” from our neighbor’s barn – throughout the living room.  Or placing a large while salt lick by the pond in hopes that we could later see the deer attracted to it.  I even remember the not so pleasant memory of thinking someone was coming up the staircase in the middle of the night with a coal shovel to “get me” – it turns out it was the click-clacking of the radiant heat registers in the room (I was so relieved to walk downstairs the next morning and see my grandparents alive and well with no shovel around J).  The farmhouse and the surrounding lands were a little kingdom that was just mine to be shared with my brothers, parents, and grandparents; whether it was a day or week in the Summer, Winter, Fall, or Spring.

 

 Obviously, the farm is a very special place from my childhood and yet the reason why I think of this paper I wrote during freshman year is because it didn’t include any people and it was supposed to be as if someone – by reading – was immediately transported to this place.  I was so easily able to write about the farm – like I am now – because it really is my happy place and a place I often picture without me or anyone else actually there – it’s just the space and the simple beauty that exists within. 

At one point while I was in elementary school I had a really hard time falling asleep fearing someone was coming to get me or something bad was going to happen to my family (clearly my worry prevented either from happening J).  One given night I remember my mom telling me to think of a place that makes me really happy, close my eyes, and imagine myself there and don’t think about anything else, just be there. The place I chose was the farm and over 20 years later it remains the place I think of when I am worn down, stressed, and even unable to fall asleep.  When I wrote that paper 17 years ago I attempted to describe the same things I see in my mind today and wanted to share some of that here. 

 

Turning into the driveway a high grassed field uses the puffy clouds to play peekaboo with the sun while it ebbs and flows in the wind like waves coming ashore.  Atop the garage a spherical air vent circulates with each push of wind – wasps flying in and out.  Barn Swallows swoop in and out of the covered wraparound porch which bears the marks of a visiting raccoon and dancing clothes drying on the line.  Inside, sun streams in from the skylight warming the living room while consequently fading photos and childhood drawings. 

The unfinished subflooring around the fireplace is covered with a series of hand-quilted rugs comment-ing on the beauty and simplicity of the neighboring communities who made them.  Outside the back window, black and white cattle huddle underneath a half-dead apple tree that provides a cluster of daily shade while they munch away on available grass and fallen apples.  The same mooing herd can be witnessed through the small and high window in the main bedroom.  Within the strong old farmhouse doors of the room’s closet there are a few pairs of shoes and a coat which are too small for a growing teenager and yet they once belonged to the giant who rebuilt this great place.  Nearby is a light blouse, worn jeans, and a navy blue bandana that show the active marks of the day’s sun and burrs of the field.  The cool white tile of the bedroom’s adjacent hallway leads to a dining table with an always ready pair of binoculars ready to catch the movements of birds, coyotes, clucking turkeys, and graceful but nervous deer.  Meanwhile, turquoise plastic plates and flatware share the table with frosted colorful aluminum cups filled with ice cold lemonade.  The well-worn woven chairs await the delicious meal wafting from the kitchen.  The unfinished stairs to the second floor welcome any visitor with a slight creak of constant unease.  The steps yearn to be sanded, stained, and shine brightly and yet they wear their status with strength and a reminder that their purpose is met.  In the three bedrooms, remnants of young boys’ imaginations conflict and yet live harmoniously with the artifacts of grown men and their military service.  Baseboards creak and mice occasionally scamper and yet the light crawling through the window shades overwhelm these unwelcome visitors and highlight the warmth of those who find rest in these room. 

 

The farm is my happy place, the place I think of when I need to find peace, reset, and/or rejuvenate.  It is a place that Megan and I discussed – unrealistically – trying to hold on to if and when my parents were ready to move on.  And this spring after several years of “discussion” my parents have decided it’s best to sell the farm and move on.  I was disappointed that I would be “losing” my special space and yet I know it is only at the cost of a greater “special” place for my parents and others. 

My parents have made the difficult choice of selling this special place because they have found something that will provide even happier moments and experiences than the farm.  The new place may not be written about in a description of grasses flowing with personification and/or unfinished steps taking pride in their purpose; however, I have no doubt a paper/note/card will be written one day to reassure them that their choice is the best possible one. It will likely be written by a grandson and/or granddaughter and delivered with the same pride in which I delivered mine.  The new happiness for my parents is in being grandparents just minutes away from their grandkids. One day, if Megan and I are fortunate enough, I would hope that all my previous happy places – including the farm – would be usurped by the power of spending time with a child and/or grandchild. 
 Nevertheless, I will always cherish my memories of the farm and my last days there with the woman I love.  Swinging on the barn rope, walking through the field to the pond, climbing our favorite tree, laying out and watching the stars, wandering the woods, and enjoying a meal on the porch whether it morning, noon, or night.  These are the memories that will always be present in my mind and ready to help me find peace when I need it (or maybe even sleep when I need it the most; like on a plane to Thailand.  So in honor of my grandmother I will close - just like she did everytime she pulled down Shore Road away from the Farm - "Goodbye my Little Farm... Goodbye."