For fifty years, my parents' farm in Mexico, New York was home. No matter what flat I occupied, I knew that I could drop by, find a meal and to a limited but warm acceptance. The pantry was converted early on into a dining room with curtained windows. I relied on this view in all seasons, and it was through these small windows that I developed a sense that this home and land would remain my touchstone of security.
Winters were bitter and the deep snow rose up and beyond those windows, on one occasion opening to let in my brother's white Samoyed pawing to come in for warmth. By February, I would crunch my boots on crisp snow following the trail of buckets to deliver a thermos of hot chocolate to my father as he boiled sap into maple syrup in a sugar shack collapsed long ago. My fingers were often burned by the thick liquid, as they brought unfinished sweetness to my mouth.
Each spring, May flowers rose and quickly died in our woods and soon after tulip and daffodil rose and exploded into bright colors. Further beyond the window, I once lost a new red leather shoe in a mud hole created by hidden springs and the heavy hooves of our Holstein cattle. And in that same field, my mother once pointed out a rare stag cautiously step out of the mists. Closer to the house is a tiny gully where my brothers and the neighbors' children arranged rocks into great castles of the imagination. It was on this land that I developed a sense of adventure as well as an appreciation of the very real fruits of hard labor.
Beyond those windows, we tossed heavy hay bales on hot summer days onto an unpainted wagon pulled by an aging, still reliable tractor. The children tired quickly, while my father and his hired hands had to continue to work in a race against the weather. With pure joy we would scamper on top of the haybales for a triumphant ride to a red barn whose upkeep fell to my father, decade after decade. As Butterfly Creek evaporated, we failed to notice its flow become a slow stagnation. And in the dawn of my earliest memories, I once asked my father why a rare, tired old black man on his last odyssey napped in our roadside ditch beneath a maple tree felled long ago.
Autumn brought orange school buses, brilliant leaves and moments of contemplation. As I played in piles of fallen raked, dry brown leaves my first sense of impermanence awoke, no matter the bounty of each harvest. Yet on my lowest of days, I would cross the road alone, crossing the small bridge over the swelling creek -- up, up, field beyond field, to the highest point on the farm and turn around. I looked toward the window through which I envisioned so much -- and wept for the end of my Eternity.
Winters were bitter and the deep snow rose up and beyond those windows, on one occasion opening to let in my brother's white Samoyed pawing to come in for warmth. By February, I would crunch my boots on crisp snow following the trail of buckets to deliver a thermos of hot chocolate to my father as he boiled sap into maple syrup in a sugar shack collapsed long ago. My fingers were often burned by the thick liquid, as they brought unfinished sweetness to my mouth.
Each spring, May flowers rose and quickly died in our woods and soon after tulip and daffodil rose and exploded into bright colors. Further beyond the window, I once lost a new red leather shoe in a mud hole created by hidden springs and the heavy hooves of our Holstein cattle. And in that same field, my mother once pointed out a rare stag cautiously step out of the mists. Closer to the house is a tiny gully where my brothers and the neighbors' children arranged rocks into great castles of the imagination. It was on this land that I developed a sense of adventure as well as an appreciation of the very real fruits of hard labor.
Beyond those windows, we tossed heavy hay bales on hot summer days onto an unpainted wagon pulled by an aging, still reliable tractor. The children tired quickly, while my father and his hired hands had to continue to work in a race against the weather. With pure joy we would scamper on top of the haybales for a triumphant ride to a red barn whose upkeep fell to my father, decade after decade. As Butterfly Creek evaporated, we failed to notice its flow become a slow stagnation. And in the dawn of my earliest memories, I once asked my father why a rare, tired old black man on his last odyssey napped in our roadside ditch beneath a maple tree felled long ago.
Autumn brought orange school buses, brilliant leaves and moments of contemplation. As I played in piles of fallen raked, dry brown leaves my first sense of impermanence awoke, no matter the bounty of each harvest. Yet on my lowest of days, I would cross the road alone, crossing the small bridge over the swelling creek -- up, up, field beyond field, to the highest point on the farm and turn around. I looked toward the window through which I envisioned so much -- and wept for the end of my Eternity.
1 comment:
Very vivid and poignant! I enjoyed reading myself after hearing you read it and enjoyed it just as much again
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