a place to call home
My Dad told me this morning that his family homestead has been abandoned for 20 years. It's still there, in Ohio, moldering away (probably being eaten by raccoons). And I can't believe I'm frigging crying about a place I've never even *seen*.
My Great Aunt Marie (the kick-ass librarian) apparently restored it to it's original beauty when she was alive. Restored the staircases, fireplaces, floors....my parents had their honeymoon there. I wish I could have seen it. I was struck by the intense pull I felt toward it (I'm not exactly ms. handyman or anything) but if it wasn't for my damn student loans, I would consider trying to restore it to at least living condition. Is it bizarre that I immediately looked for a job at the local college in the nearby town? (maybe i'm only as crazy as my heritage).
I WANT. I don't understand. I can't believe my great uncle has let the place get eaten by nature! It sounds like it will pass on to my Dad's cousin (who is a bit of a family historian). I hope she tries to to save it. (is it selfish that i wish it could be me?). A quarter mile down the lane, behind the stand of trees with a wide-open lawn.... And all I could think of was this:
"John's grandpa dies July 27th, six days after he turns eighty-two. He's buried long before the news reaches Antarctica, and John's left with a note from the minister who conducted services, a newspaper clipping about the funeral, and the key to a farmhouse he hasn't seen since he was twelve. The key's dull and scratched, and for reasons John doesn't entirely understand, he hopes this is the one his grandpa used to tuck under the doormat when he headed into town.
He shoves it under his pillow, and heads out to the chopper. There's nothing to be done about it now, and his grandpa always said work could cure pretty much anything.
He takes the supply run, does his best not to think about Iowa overmuch, but there are only two months left of his tour, and suddenly there's someplace he can go when he's through. A lifetime in the military's made him good at pushing away unwanted thoughts, but this time none of the usual tricks seem to work. He lies awake at night, kept from sleep by memories of summers flecked with gold and the sting of bug bites in the late afternoon. He can't decide if everything he remembers is soaked with sunlight because he's tired of freezing, or because his memories are sepia-toned.
By the time he packs his duffel and checks his locker for the last time, he's still not entirely accepted what he's about to do. But four days later he's in a cab, $46 on the meter and rising, speeding down a county road, looking for the farmhouse around every September bend."
-A Farm in Iowa sheafrotherdon