The Farm

Billy and I went this afternoon to see my Grandfather, George, who, rather unprompted, and much to my enjoyment, started in on old stories. He told us of the time back during the "war... the big one" when he was in flight school in rural Indiana, eighteen years old and geared up for an unprecedented weekend of leave from the base. He and his friends hadn't seen a town in months, and, anxious to get going, they happily submitted to the requirement for freedom. They had their wisdom teeth pulled Saturday morning. It was--he described--awful, performed under the thinnest veil of novocaine, but they made it to the partying anyway. The dentist who had performed the procedure hitch-hiked them to Indianapolis and they had a raucous good time. As my grandfather tells it, the ladies of Indianapolis enjoyed the Naval visit too.

After Grandfather's, we drove through the countryside up to Chardon, by way of the Amish cheese factory in Middlefield. I am a sucker for cheese curds. We turned west onto G.A.R. Highway, which has seen significant development in the past 15 years, and soon came upon the family property which was the location of many happy childhood summer days (for me and for my mother before me). The main house is currently inhabited by a renting family, and is wrapped up in Tyvek plastic, so we headed down to the "Pig Pen," a little cottage built in the 1950s or so by a great uncle.

The Pig Pen is overgrown with vines that curl off of a trellis that seems to grow from the ground itself, and I think it has always had a certain air of half-sleeping mystery. Each room smells distinctively of the house, slightly mousy and mothbally, with apples and wood giving it charm. Every surface is covered with dust and the grime of neglect. The renters say my Great Aunt Lyn (capitals required) will be there in a few weeks, but it seems like the house has stopped in time, no longer a place to stay. It has, as far back as I can remember, felt like a relic of the forgotten.

It was a beautiful summer evening, and streaks of light made the place magical, though it was a phantom image of itself, untouchable and unreal with its spirit fled. I think the house was intentionally designed to evoke a rustic frontier, with South American flare. It has bare wood slats for walls, a giant chimney-stove in the center of the main room, ancient Madonna-and-Child icons scattered among Aztec pottery and Mayan masks. Only there does it feel somehow congruous to put side by side colorful paintings from Southeast Alaskan tribes and busty sculptures from African villages.

In that museum of eclectic travels, lit by tin lanterns and glass-warped sunlight, I've always been entranced and terrified. The apple tree on the patio has been dying since I was eight. The frog pond is sicklied over with green, the same water that my brother accidentally tumbled into before he knew how to swim. But every once in awhile, a hardy frog skips across the surface...

We wandered next through Sally and Helen's bungalow, I on a specific, hopeful hunt for one of the wooden jigsaw puzzles Helen used to make as gifts. That little white house with its expansive living room and porch is more of an airy 1940s summer house, simple and geared toward the enjoyment of company and games. We found some interesting pictures, and an invitation to Sally and Willis' wedding in 1953. I was named after Sally. She and Helen were always kind to my mother... I wish I had known her. I imagine she was both glamorous and solidly Midwestern. Savvy on the subjects about which she knew, and sweet to everyone. But these are just my conjectures.

We walked as well down the field along the fence to where the path goes downhill to Skeeter's pond. The willow tree that used to stand on the island and trickle over the water like in a painting has died and disappeared. I was amazed, though, at how little has changed about the woods. We easily picked a path through the clearing--once the upper pasture--that took us over the creek where I used to hunt crayfish. From there we wound through the trees and back up to the hay field behind the barn.

The summer evening light goes on forever, and Ohio sunsets are pink-orange glories. I remember falling asleep in the tiny sunroom of the main house as light blue faded on the horizon and stars began to prick the muslin sky. The spinning wheel was there, and that ship's lantern that I've always missed. Somewhere I lost my teddy bear, and there we raised a kitten into a cat who sat by us during Ruth's awesome pancake breakfasts. We had bonfires in the field, and played bocce on long nights fueled by a pony keg. I did not even think to go in the main house on this visit. A different family lives there now, not even owners or stakeholders in our collective memory. The outer wall is covered with plastic construction wrap, and they are installing central heating in walls that were meant to frame a summer home. The tenant's girlfriend was rocking in a chair on the back porch.