The Farm

Today I want to tell you about my grandparent’s farm. We used to go there in the summers—my sister, Lydia, cousin Devin and I, along with our mom and aunt. The three of us kids spent a lot of hours exploring that farm, after we got told to go outside and get out from underfoot as our mothers were trying to help my grandmother with projects around the house.

The family farm is 300 acres of open farmland and forest in upstate New York. The house is huge and white, and it sits on top of the hill, overlooking the valley. I think it looks more like a monopoly hotel than a house, but it’s been a second home to me. The house is large since my grandparents have 5 kids and a lot of grandchildren. It has 3 stories, 6 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, 2 kitchens. But, when it is just my grandparents living there, the house seems rather empty. The large windows across the front face southwest, so the sunlight shines into the living room in the afternoon. I’ve spent a lot of hours in that living room, sprawled out across the pink carpet reading, or drawing, or trying to ignore the sticky summer heat in a house with no AC. It has an open floor plan, without a lot of construction character, though that is made up for in the decorations that I can’t say I’ve ever been a fan of. My grandmother chose light pink carpet with aqua-green couches. Pink is her favorite color, and it makes her happy.

The house has a huge yard that was kept mowed short. The hill is perfect for rolling down when the grass is soft and green, and long enough to make your head spin wildly after you get to the bottom. It is also a perfect sledding hill for the winter. In the middle of the yard, a bit to the right of the house, there is a patch of brambles and briars that used to be a raspberry garden, but has grown up into a snarl from years of neglect. There are still berries in its inner realms during the summer, but the bushes warrant scratches to claim their fruit. Worth it just the same.

The farm used to be used for dairy cattle, but my grandfather sold the cows years ago, and now the huge dairy barn sits lonely in the field below the house. It’s been slowly filling up with old cars, bits of farm machinery and scraps of memories for years. The hayloft is still used for hay, and it became a quiet nook for fort-building and childhood talks.

My uncle and aunt to lived together in the original farmhouse at the bottom of the hill, across from the barn, before she died. It’s an old creaky house with a typical New England slate roof and a southern-plantation style front porch with fancy white molding. It desperately needs a coat of paint, and has for years. There is the typical New England mud room that we always come in through—they never use the front door. It smells faintly of cats, since my cousin had several who lived in there for years, before she got married and moved. I don’t know why her cats lived inside—I think she was afraid the Coyotes would eat them if they were out. In the living room sits a black iron wood stove—the kind with the tiny window in the front, so you can see in, but just barely. It’s always so warm in the winter. The adjacent sitting room has that wonderfully dated burnt orange shag carpet from the 60’s or 70’s and an old piano. Their Christmas tree always sits in there during the holidays. My uncle lives there with his new wife now. She’s sweet and he’s happy—but it’s just not the same.

And I suppose nothing about that farm is really the same as it used to be. My grandparents are getting too old to live there alone now. My grandpa has a failing memory, and my grandma can’t take care of the big house alone. So they’re leaving; moving in with my aunt in West Virginia and putting the farm up for sale. And it almost feels like a piece of my past is abandoning me. The summers we spent there were so filled with grand adventures—hikes following old deer paths and made-up tales of Indian burial grounds in the forest. Finding creeks in the woods and exploring their gentle meanderings, carving our initials into trees, playing with barn kittens; there is more than I can name. We did all the things you should do growing up. But all good adventurers know that even the grandest of times must end; so, this is my final goodbye to a place that will always occupy a special spot in my life story.