A Sense of Old Farm Place

On a whim one day, passing through the region, I pulled up to my childhood home. My parents had moved away over a decade ago, and I wanted to see what it was like after all these years. I drove up the long driveway, right to the edge where the garden would have been. I saw it as it used to be: The pumpkins, orange and nearly bursting, would have been ripe for harvest this time of year. The dark green zucchini would stand out near the bright sunflower-colored squash, all bunched up next to their butternut neighbors and bulbous icebergs on the next row.

My eye would turn west and see the pressure treated wood of our gazebo, glowing in the late afternoon sun, a dedication to my late grandmother. She loved the quatrains of rosebushes squared neatly on its corners. Their bloodred and white hues would catch the sunlight as you sat on the little benches near the weeping cherry tree, whose pale pink petals drifted like little bursts of color on a canvas of grass. But today I find none of these memories.

Instead, the garden is a gravel pit now: barren, grey and empty. Forlorn ruts of a giant RV indent a few rows left behind. The rose garden is a mismatched patch of different grasses, with some minor indentations where the tall gazebo once stood. The cherry tree is gone, just a blank green patch of crabgrass staring back at me. There are a few trees left though, the oldest and largest. Perhaps they were simply too expensive to remove. Mature landscaping has its value, I suppose. I spot a part of the lawn where the Kildeers used to roost in long patches of grass, their raucous screeches a maternal warning against treading upon their nests. The lawns are silent now.

I suppose this design appeals to some people. There is a drab order to things. Gravel sections stretch like empty walls over patches where honeysuckle and marigold once formed vibrant, living barriers. I see they kept the hot tub though.

My eye follows the amber decking that stretches from the back door to where a stone brick patio was once nestled neatly in a corner. A large cloth canopy covered the whole area, one that matched the bench swing that I so loved to take naps upon. Countless birthdays, anniversaries, and other celebrations took place here, where I sat with my grandmother or brother and laughed at silly jokes while playing dominos. I remember the time we shot silly string in wild arcing streams of color for my fifteenth birthday. I remember how angry my mother was that it stained the furniture in some places. I smiled thinking of the bouncy castles where we’d jump for hours, all my cousins and siblings and neighbors rampaging around like wild animals. And how could I forget the time my mother rented a pony for my little brother’s fifth birthday? That’s when we found out he was allergic to horses.

The memories lead me to questions. Where are all these features, and why is this land so empty? And why is there just more gravel where those stone bricks once interlocked into a patterned floor that my mother and I painstakingly laid over weeks? I start questioning a lot here, aside from the basics of the landscaping. Where are all those trees I tended? I take a long look around and find the corner of the property where my favorite plum tree once stood. I can remember its purple leaves and sweet, juicy plums bursting from the stems this time of year. I’d sit on a stone bench, lean against its branches, and bite into my ambrosial fruit. It’s just a corner now, more patches of grass evidence of change.

How many hours did I spend on that rider mower, zooming around this property, or with the edger trying to make perfect cuts along these cement pathways? Where are the hedges that I arduously trimmed into teardrops, one after another, bordered by tulips and patches of wildflowers? How many times did the branches I pruned off that maple tree scrape my arms on the way down? And I don’t think my lower back will ever forget the ache of bending over these beds, year after year, pulling weeds that never seemed to end.

But as I look again, I see this family has made this house their own. What were once giant stucco columns leading to the front door are now solid and painted with a mild tan, reminiscent of the adobe beige that once adorned them. A stonework lattice weaves its way across the front walls, and shiplap panels make neat lines around the windows. Regular intervals of bustling green hedges stick out here and there in big, unkempt sprawls. But it suits them, and this new, different place. And I see how large the evergreen has grown, and my heart gets a little warmer. It seemed big when we planted it at around eight feet tall. Now, at nearly fifty, its arms stretch skyward like a giant, and its shadow falls across the whole front yard.

The stone cinderblocks still shape the curve of the flowerbeds out here. I remember when we laid hundreds of those bricks during a hot summer so many years ago. They hold back the edges of wide bushes, with a backdrop full of tall flowers, most of which I don’t recognize. So this is where all the life was hiding. Suddenly I notice a few new trees beyond, barely taller than saplings, telling a story of only a few seasons on these grounds. A tiny board and batten shed sits in the corner where my childhood treehouse once sat. I imagine the many tools that fill that shed, tools like I once used to keep this land alive.

While there are some things I might change, I also accept that I no longer have a say here. I’m just a passer-by taking a trip down memory lane. Only I’ve reached the end of this path, and perhaps, I think, it’s time to go. So I walk the long cement driveway, past all the precisely pruned edges of green and grey, hop in my car, and drive away, back into the country – back home, where I belong.