I've loved that place my whole life. It is a peaceful, established place. It is steady amidst the chaos of my family; we moved many times during my youth, and I haven't stopped that practice in my adult life. But my grandmother is always there, on her farm amidst tall oaks and blossoming dogwoods. It's comforting and lovely to have a place in the world with roots that are mine. Although the farm and it's house are old, creaky and in mediocre repair I adore it.
One of my favorite things to do is to sit on the uneven, porous concrete back porch in the summer with one hand resting on the black pipe handrail and the other holding a sweating mason jar of ice water. I look out on the fields, which are always changing. Sometimes there are cattle, often peanuts, sometimes corn, wheat or soy. Other years there has been a peach orchard in the far left corner. And one favorite summer of mine there were two horses in the pasture, grazing contentedly with the cattle.
In the front of the property, near the road, sits the largest "garden" you've ever seen, overflowing with tomatoes, butter beans, squash, corn. Gram loves to eat and can and feed her family, neighbors, the people at her church and anyone and everyone else who has a bit of storage space in their stomach. And when the eating is done, if you don't have a roof to rest your head under, she'll supply you with one of those too.
The backyard before the field has changed over the years too. The large Willow that cradled the hammock is gone, as is the above-ground septic tank. Now in their place is my Grandmother's steam house (my Grandpa built it before he died so my grandma could go and have a sauna... actually he built about four of them. They kept burning down.) The rocky driveway remains, serving as both an economic means of driving up to the house and a loud notification when anyone does amble up it.
Down the single-lane backwoods highway a bit, old Seabourn's store sits closed up, gas pumps shut off and the place boarded up. I remember going there for tiny half-sized cans of ginger ale and doctor pepper as a child. The small, dark interior bespoke an impoverished, southern farming way of life -concrete block walls and not enough dingy, fluorescent track lighting on the ceilings - and you could sense the throwback effects of slavery and repression. Down another road a bit is Mrs. Pennington's place. A large and lovely historic plantation home. The land is still in use for farming. The old slave quarters still stand. The glass in their windows is made up of swirling patterns that shimmer and glitter in the light and cast a bit of beauty on what once held so much sadness.
The pace of life is slow, steady and relaxed. I love many places for different reasons, but this was place was my first love. In contrast with suburban life in California, The farm showed me how truly different places could be when I was still a child.
Adolescence into adulthood, the years were bookmarked sporadically by my trips to Grandma's. Time passed too quickly on those trips taking long drives down to the river to cool off; Driving at break-neck speeds down the barely paved country roads singing at the top of my lungs with the wind blowing through my hair. All the while the sweet summer heat of the place pressing densley on my face and lips so that I could taste it.
I'm comin' home a while y'all. I'll be there soon.
The backyard before the field has changed over the years too. The large Willow that cradled the hammock is gone, as is the above-ground septic tank. Now in their place is my Grandmother's steam house (my Grandpa built it before he died so my grandma could go and have a sauna... actually he built about four of them. They kept burning down.) The rocky driveway remains, serving as both an economic means of driving up to the house and a loud notification when anyone does amble up it.
The grass is perpetually green and lush. The dense, surrounding woods filled with calling whoop-o-wills and bob-whites; with sandy soil, box turtles and copperhead snakes. The soil is rich; the air is humid.
Down the single-lane backwoods highway a bit, old Seabourn's store sits closed up, gas pumps shut off and the place boarded up. I remember going there for tiny half-sized cans of ginger ale and doctor pepper as a child. The small, dark interior bespoke an impoverished, southern farming way of life -concrete block walls and not enough dingy, fluorescent track lighting on the ceilings - and you could sense the throwback effects of slavery and repression. Down another road a bit is Mrs. Pennington's place. A large and lovely historic plantation home. The land is still in use for farming. The old slave quarters still stand. The glass in their windows is made up of swirling patterns that shimmer and glitter in the light and cast a bit of beauty on what once held so much sadness.
The pace of life is slow, steady and relaxed. I love many places for different reasons, but this was place was my first love. In contrast with suburban life in California, The farm showed me how truly different places could be when I was still a child.
Adolescence into adulthood, the years were bookmarked sporadically by my trips to Grandma's. Time passed too quickly on those trips taking long drives down to the river to cool off; Driving at break-neck speeds down the barely paved country roads singing at the top of my lungs with the wind blowing through my hair. All the while the sweet summer heat of the place pressing densley on my face and lips so that I could taste it.
I'm comin' home a while y'all. I'll be there soon.
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