Thanksgiving 2011: Finally, the Farm!

Thanksgiving 2011, Part One is here.
Thanksgiving 2011, Part Two is here.
Thanksgiving 2011, Part Three is here.

"You'll be disappointed," my dad had warned me several times as we talked about our trip through the Cove and my chance to see my grandparents' farm again.  Although there is a certain amount of stuff that necessarily accumulates on a farm, my grandparents had done a good job of keeping things neat and tidy.  Their home and farm would have never made the cover of a magazine; but the house was always clean and well-taken-care-of, the garden and flowerbeds were recipients of much attention and responded by producing beautifully, and the clutter and disarray that seems to encroach on any piece of property were held at bay by my grandparents' hard work and devotion to their daily duties.  They were not slackers.

The family who bought the farm after my grandparents died had never farmed before; and perhaps they underestimated how much time, effort, and sweat (and tears?) goes into running a successful farm.  At any rate, things have gone downhill around the place.  My parents have been back to visit a time or two; and when they've traveled through the Cove to visit family or attend a funeral or enjoy a class reunion, they've kept their eyes peeled as they drive by the farm, just for the chance to soak in the view again.  Each time, they realized that the farm was deteriorating: hence, my dad's warning to me.

By the way, lest it seem like I'm casting stones at the current owners, let me assure you that I am not.  For goodness' sake, I can hardly keep up with my laundry and shoo the fast-accumulating dust bunnies out the door of my house, much less run a whole farm!!  So I sympathize with them, not judge them harshly.

I've written before about how dearly I love that farm and how much I treasure the memories we made there.  As we drove into the oh-so-familiar curving lane on Wednesday and my eyes started to absorb all that I could see, I caught glimpses of the place I once knew.  But my parents were right: it was different.  I wish I had pictures at my fingertips of how it used to look, but what I do have are the photos I took last week.  They are enough to remind me...and to take me back in time.  Although we didn't get to go inside the house, it's probably just as well.  I can still picture it the way it used to be, with Grandma and Granddad at their places at the table and warmth and love and good cheer filling the air.  I'm blessed to have had so many happy moments with them here in this beloved house...

...and on this cherished piece of ground...

...and in these old farm buildings.

Even before I got out of the van, I was snapping pictures--in this case, of the old chicken house.  How well I remember climbing those old steps and turning to the left to go in among the clucking chickens, wire basket in hand, to gather eggs.  I never liked having to put my hand under a sitting chicken to search for an egg, but my granddad did it so calmly.  That, to my childish mind, was true bravery.  :)

"There's the corncrib!" I told my sons; and in return, I got blank looks from boys apparently unfamiliar with that word.  Have they never been in a corncrib and seen the golden ears filling both sides, the kernels peeking out from behind the railings?

Though the buildings had seen better days, to my eyes, they were still beautiful.

One of the first things I noticed was the multitude of cats about the place.  When Tobin saw them on the front porch, he headed towards them, eager to pet them...

...and although many of them scattered at his approach...

...he did find some friendly ones.  :)

David had been so excited about seeing a spring (there are several on the farm).  I knew we wouldn't be able to do as much traipsing around as I wanted to, and the old springhouse wouldn't be accessible to explore (if it's even there anymore--in its location behind the house and down by the crik, I couldn't see it from where we were).  But there is also a spring right across the road (still on the property), so we headed down the driveway to see that, followed by the friendly kitty.

Here, in all its glory, is The Spring.  :)

Shav, Jeff, and my dad stayed in the warm van as the rest of us wandered.  It was rather chilly out in the wind.  :)

This country road that lies directly across from the farm shares a name with the street on which I now live; in fact, when our county was putting in the 911 system and requiring every house to have a regular street address (even for those who get their mail at the post office), my parents were able to suggest this name, and our county agreed.  When I was a girl visiting the farm however, we called it the Wallbash (I'm not at all sure how that should be spelled, but that's how it sounds:  wall-bash); and we would often take evening walks down its length, all the way to the stream that lies at the end of my grandparents' former property, before turning around at the bridge to come back.  The adults would all take a walking stick, which (I now realize) gave needed support to my granddad who had broken his back some years before in a farming accident and consequently always walked with a stoop and to my grandma who suffered from scoliosis and had quite a significant curvature of her spine.  Because the adults had walking sticks, my brother David and I liked to take one, too.  I suppose those sticks might have been useful if we had seen a snake (although those who have read my blog for a while and remember my snake stories would agree that the only things useful to me in that situation would have been my lungs screaming for help and my legs getting me out of there as fast as I could!--it was not until much more recently that I was able to summon up enough courage to face down, and defeat, a snake).   ;-)  Here are Josiah and David being silly at the beginning of the Wallbash.

From our vantage point across the road, I could look across to the opening to the farm, with its upper and lower driveways.  That curve in the road, of which this picture only shows part, was quite a nuisance over the years, with more than a few times someone crashing into the wall by the garden and having to come to the door in the middle of the night for help.

This dear farm wasn't the first home my mother lived in, but it's certainly the one she spent most of her childhood in.  How very special for me to be able to go back and visit it with her again.

Although I'm not sure I really needed an extra reason for giving thanks, this visit gave me one anyway.  If only my Aunt Joyce from British Columbia had been there with us, it would have been even more special.  When my dad told me that the current owners of the farm were thinking about selling it, my heart leaped.  Oh, how I wish one of my Canadian cousins could buy it!  I know that will never happen, but one can always dream.  And I do...  :)