The Farm

It was a place of freedom in my childhood. In my mind I’m drawn to this place. I’m drawn to the memories it holds for me. A time and a place where imaginations ran free and creativity blossomed. There holds for me a kind of magic at the farm, in my memory. In my soul. It is a grounding by which all other standards must give way, be measured to. The memory of this place balances me. It was a time in my life where children were free to roam. There was a safety in this place. Not like the safety of today. Todays children must always be watched by adults. There is no freedom in that. There was a swing set up on the hill in front of the barn. Not like today’s tiny swings, but a real swing, as tall as the sky, which swung over the heavens if you persisted. There was only one swing and a person could exit this place for a moment just by sitting on that swing and be far far away in other lands, either gliding gracefully across the fields or flying high above the trees.

There was an orchard full of apple trees, a tractor and a wagon loaded with bushel baskets. The orchards were mystical places indeed, guarded by rows of poplar sentries. There was an apple room with a long machine which rolled the apples and sorted them by size. The room smelled deliciously sweet. It was usually closed and off limits to wandering children unless they were helping. There was a breezeway where many a game was played. Then there was the barn. The barn held a myriad of options for growing children. There was the bottom part, with animals and stalls. Small rooms for storage or hens. I had a few hens when I grew older. The upper level which you enter from the top of the hill was full of hay. Sweet, aromatic hay. It was baled and stacked and the the room was huge. We created kingdoms and domains. We tunneled and made caves and hid and camped and played. Beside the hay loft was a drop to the lower level. A long rope hung ready and we would fly over the opening and come back to the loft. It was dangerous, but danger was what made it fun. Danger was what drew us in.

Behind the barn and the houses the hill dropped down to a creek, which wound it’s way across the back border of the property. The creek was intriguing for sure. In the early winter it became a skating rink. We sat on a log at the edge and tied on our skates. We had snow shovels which we pushed along to clear the snow. We skated until our feet were numb and our noses and fingers frozen. We would go inside to warm chocolate milk and gently rub our feet and hands and endure the pain of frostbite. But we would do the same thing again the next day. As the winter grew longer the ice split from the weight of the snow, we turned to snowshoe adventures and skis. There was never a boring day on the farm.

In the Spring we turned our attention to the melting snow and stayed away from the creek. The ever changing landscape as the snow melted gave opportunity for parades and acting games when I was usually a witch. Not the good witch. I was always the evil witch. I terrorized my younger siblings during these games. We tapped the maples lining the driveway and boiled down the sap over a fire. When the water subsided and the ground was free again we climbed the tallest pines and built homes with hammers and nails and pieces of wood we could lift up the trunks. The plan was to build ourselves a fort as high as possible and sit up there gazing over the land. We weren’t actually allowed to do any of this. This is what we did because we were free. We didn’t climb trees in front of our parents. But our parents weren’t playing outdoors with us. We went outdoors to play because that’s what children did. That was how parents took ‘time out’. That was how a mother could get anything done. As the spring turned into summer the creek drew us back and we fished on the bank and swam in the muddy waters careful to avoid the leeches. We built a bridge which actually worked and a raft which we took downstream and had to abandon because we couldn’t get it to go upstream. We were actually thrilled that we were escaping down river and planning our lives ahead and then we bumped into a fence put by the neighbor farm to keep unwanted riff from floating across his part of the world.

We weren’t the only family living on the farm. There were ten of us in one family, twelve if you count our parents. There was another family with a lot of children and the farmer and his wife had a few of their own. We were our own community. There were enough children living there that we could have a pretty good game of baseball. We called it something else and everyone moves up a spot throughout the game so that everyone gets a turn at every post. Nobody wins but everyone tries to get a home run. The lawn in front of the main farm house was plenty large enough for a game of baseball. The driveway was made of gravel and had a large parking area at the top of the hill. We played marbles, and games where you throw a stick at the nearest person, if you hit them then they are it. We played a game called war, where you take over the driveway by drawing lines and throwing stones. I don’t remember all the games but it took hours of time and so much enjoyment. There was magic on the farm. The memory draws me in at times. It’s not the same when you go back to visit. The farm has changed, or perhaps it’s me that’s changed. I’m older now, everything feels smaller and less intriguing. Everyone else has grown up as well. The magic of it was there for us for a moment. It has moved on, but in my memory it will always be a magical place.

Elizabeth Williams - daily writing exercise, 1,081 words