Nothing remains...
...and nothing has changed; everything has changed...
This song makes me think of going back to my Grandmother's farm, and seeing how the land held its shape, but the orchard and spinney and garden and hay field, and the drainage ditch with the little bridge, and the chicken shed and the tool shed, and the bramble patches ...they were all gone. The table rock blasted out of the ground, and the 70' broadleaf maple cut to the ground. ...and yet, the view from the top of the street was the same, and the trains crawled through the valley and I held my breath and waited to see the colour of the caboose, and it was as though I had climbed onto the gate at the top of the drive with my sister, our hands stained with blackberries, waiting and watching.
I am glad that the table rock, that we picniced on every summer, that my Grandpere could not pull out even with the neighbour's team of strong oxen, took a crew of six men and dynamite to remove. I am sad that the big old maple could not have been preserved, but I suppose it was getting pretty elderly... And the nurse logs from the spinney are gone, with their delicate fungus and baby mosses and thimbleberries and wild bleeding hearts so dainty and modest, unlike the showey variation growing in my own garden. ...and the ditch where my sister and I hunted for slugs to feed my garter snakes... And my Gran limping out to feed our chickens and rabbits through the week, so that we could play with them on the weekends - I never stopped to consider how much work that was for her; I never stopped to thank her.
My sons will have their own nostalgic places; I just wish I could have shown them mine.
This song makes me think of going back to my Grandmother's farm, and seeing how the land held its shape, but the orchard and spinney and garden and hay field, and the drainage ditch with the little bridge, and the chicken shed and the tool shed, and the bramble patches ...they were all gone. The table rock blasted out of the ground, and the 70' broadleaf maple cut to the ground. ...and yet, the view from the top of the street was the same, and the trains crawled through the valley and I held my breath and waited to see the colour of the caboose, and it was as though I had climbed onto the gate at the top of the drive with my sister, our hands stained with blackberries, waiting and watching.
I am glad that the table rock, that we picniced on every summer, that my Grandpere could not pull out even with the neighbour's team of strong oxen, took a crew of six men and dynamite to remove. I am sad that the big old maple could not have been preserved, but I suppose it was getting pretty elderly... And the nurse logs from the spinney are gone, with their delicate fungus and baby mosses and thimbleberries and wild bleeding hearts so dainty and modest, unlike the showey variation growing in my own garden. ...and the ditch where my sister and I hunted for slugs to feed my garter snakes... And my Gran limping out to feed our chickens and rabbits through the week, so that we could play with them on the weekends - I never stopped to consider how much work that was for her; I never stopped to thank her.
My sons will have their own nostalgic places; I just wish I could have shown them mine.