The Farm

We don’t do it often, our trips to The Farm.  Although we collectively agree that we love to be there, a few things stand in our way.  First, Tahd’s travel schedule.  It seems he’s gone just often enough to make weekend trips annoying.  Next, we had hoped to go in May, but May turned out far differently from what we had imagined.  And finally?  When I’m not at The Farm I think The Farm doesn’t like me.  I’m a girl – a girly girl.  I wear makeup and fuss over clothes and love to go shopping and value high-speed internet and city water.  Why would The Farm like me?  The Farm is none of those things!  But then I get there and fall in love again and realize The Farm doesn’t hold those things against me.  It just loves to have visitors.

The Farm is a small family homestead in the midwest, land that nurtured my husband and made him who he is now (that being the man who does not love makeup and clothes and shopping and city water; he does, however, love high-speed internet).  I can’t tell you how unusual it is to this migrant child (me) to visit the house my husband came home to only days after his arrival here on earth and called home everyday until he married me.  Even more fascinating to me is the fact that as a child, his own father lived in this house briefly, before moving a quarter mile away to the home he considered “his” childhood home.  Me?  I’m a citizen of the world, or of North America, at least.  Tahd is a citizen of this land, land that he has worked and his father has worked and his father’s father has worked.  They are in that land, my husband and his family.  The soil speaks his family name.

Weekends at The Farm never disappoint.  There is sleep – loads of glorious sleep!  Thanks to inlaws who are early risers and relish the solo time they get to spend with their lone grandchild, Tahd and I both get a chance to rest our eyes a little longer and with a little less guilt than usual.

There are delicious afternoon naps while the sun streams all around and warms you to your bones, healing all that is wrong with the world.

(Check on the terror on his face!  My child? Not a risk taker!)

There are swings and water fights and dogs that bark long into the night.

There is fresh, homemade ice cream, its crystals begging to melt in the sticky heat.

There is corn that is higher than the hand can reach even though it’s not scheduled to be harvested for three more months.

There are moonlit walks in light that is perfect (but air so humid you could practically go swimming in it).

There are fireflies – billions of fireflies! – that come out at night and beg to be captured on camera while they twinkle and shine.  I’ve promised myself that someday I’ll figure out how to do it; that day, however, was apparently not included in this weekend.

Gabe loves The Farm, and it warms my heart to watch him soak up his heritage while he digs in the dirt outside and the closets inside.  There are toys from Tahd’s childhood and toys from Tahd’s father’s childhood.  There are hiding spots and countless treasures waiting to be found.  There are secrets in the walls and buildings and trees and ground that can only be discovered by experiencing them first-hand.  And Gabe does – he experiences them enthusiastically, with every fiber of his being.  He can’t help but experience them.  The Farm calls his name; its language is in his genes.  The Farm is part of him.

The power went out while we were there, for no apparent reason.  Although it had stormed torrentially earlier in the day and the electricity flirted with us with its flickers and blinks, it wasn’t until early evening – with clear skies and a setting sun – that the power decided to make its exit.  As such, Gabe’s bedtime routine had to be completed sans lights.  Also sans toilet flushing, but that’s another issue for another day.  Seriously – is there anything more enchanting than being on a farm and reading old children’s book by the light of your lantern?  Is there?  I can’t imagine what could be better, the old-fashioned scent of kerosene mixed with the twinkle of a flame and the stuff of fairy tales.

I’d bet Tahd loves the farm more than I do.  He’d have to.  It’s his.  But I love it, too, in my own way, and when it’s time to go I’m sad to leave.  It’s a good place, a connected place, a happy place.  I’ll probably always be a beach-and-shopping-and-lipgloss-and-glamor girl, but there will always be a place in my heart reserved for the loveliness of The Farm.