I remember the first time I saw the house. My mom and dad were looking for another house to rent because the landlord had sold the one we were in. Days when Dad was at work and my brother and sister were in school, Mom would take the car and go look at houses in the paper that were for rent. I don’t know what most of them looked like, but I remember her telling Dad after a day of looking at a few that the landlords didn’t want kids there. There was one I remember. The whole family went to check it out on a Saturday. It was in Bridgeton. An old, white farmhouse that had plenty of rooms for all of us. Even better was the old, red barn with a horse in one of the four stalls. My sister and I fell in love with the place and the horse. My brother, Craig, was not impressed. It was too old, and he wasn’t into horses like we were. Anyway, we didn’t get it. I think we were second in line for the place, and the people first in line decided they did want it after all.
Still looking for a house, Mom packed me up one day with Dad at work and the other two kids in school and went house hunting again. As we drove down the tree lined dirt road, I decided this was the best place so far. A sight unseen, the house called to my six-year-old spirit. Coming up on the farmhouse from the back, I saw white shingles and a large field ringed by trees and a stone wall. “Come explore me,” they seemed to say, and I was ready to go.
Mom, having been through the “finding a new home” process before. wasn’t quite so sure. As she drove into the dirt drive and parked our older white Rambler in front of the porch to park, I got ready to get out. “Not this time Bren, you wait here and be quiet until I come back. I’m going to talk to them and they won’t want kids running around.”
Grudgingly, I sat back down on the seat. Knowing I couldn’t argue with her, I figured I’d wait a little bit and then find a reason to get out. I didn’t get my stubborn nature from my dad you know.
The day seemed to drag as Mom stood on the porch talking to the lady that came to the door. Dressed in long shorts to the knees and a loose cotton shirt, she looked old. I knew that because her hair was white and cut short. At that age I thought everyone with short and or white hair was old. As I watched Mom talking I thought that we finally had a house to move to, until Mom turned and started back toward the car. I could feel the tears start, I already loved the house, wanted to live there, just from seeing the outside, now we didn’t even get to see the inside.
“Okay, you can get out. We’re going to look at the inside and Mrs. A said she thought you might want to come too.”
It didn’t take long for my short little legs to jump out of the car and hit the driveway. I just knew this was our house. We walked up three steps and stepped into the hallway. Another door opened into the kitchen and we began the “tour” of the house. To me, it was huge. The kitchen was bigger than the one with the mended screen door, there was a chair by the window, and the dining table would fit. The rest of the house was just as amazing to me. There were three bedrooms, so I only had to share with my sister now. All of the rooms were spacious with nice windows to let the sun in. In all my six years I’d never lived in one so big. As we started up the stairs, I heard Mrs. A say that she would be living upstairs during the summer, awesome built in neighbors, I knew this was “The One”.
In the last room she showed us, her daughter’s bedroom upstairs, I saw a huge stuffed tiger. Mrs. A must have seen my eyes light up because she gave it to me. I couldn’t believe my luck. We had found our new house and the old lady liked me.
Mom and Mrs. A decided on rental conditions and when we would move in. I was busy exploring my new yard, so I didn’t hear them until Mom called me back to the car.
Saturday came quickly. Mom and I had been packing boxes all week. My brother Craig, my older sister Dawn and I were helping Mom carry boxes into the back bedroom. Everything went smoothly as they continued carrying in the boxes. I had found something else to do. I introduced myself to Mrs. A’s family and proceeded to visit with these people I had just met.
I knew the boxes were finished when Craig told me we needed to leave. It was dark outside and thinking about reading at bedtime, I panicked. I said, “I need to get my book” and headed for the back room.
“Get yourself back here. We’ll be here in a couple of days, you can finish it then.” As always there was no point arguing with Mom.
The first day of school and moving to the farmhouse happened together. It was exciting, but more than that, I felt like this was where I belonged. The old farmhouse welcomed me with its open fields to explore and the rooms that welcomed me each day after school. All three of us enjoyed playing in the fields and the edges of the forest. My sister and I would try to rebuild the rock walls where they had fallen down from disuse and neglect. My brother, Craig, was mainly interested in the woods and proximity to the pond and brook down the road. He enjoyed hunting, trapping, and fishing but always seemed to feel the old house wasn’t good enough. He liked new, fancier houses.
I couldn’t have been older than fourth grade when Mrs. A decided to sell the house. She gave Mom and Dad first chance and of course they bought it. That’s when we found out that my great – grandmother had lived there as a young woman with her first husband. Later I found a picture of her standing in front of the granite steps, long dark hair braided and curled around her head, an apron over the front of her dress, arms folded, and her ever present smile. She hadn’t changed much over the years except her braided hair coil had turned to white. The granite steps were still in place, the only difference from the photo was that the front door wasn’t the one used for entry now.
As years went by, I looked forward to coming home at night, from school or work, to the soft light from the windows welcoming me back. Even when I married and moved away the house still felt comforting to me each time I came back for vacation. Age left a mark on it, the paint faded, and little things made its mark on my home. One time I would see a new fence for the dog pen, that my folks had put up. The next might be a flower bed where the circle drive used to be. Small changes that tried to change the heart of the old house. They didn’t matter, she still spoke to my heart with each visit. Calmness and joy shown through the lights touching the yard in the evening and I always knew the place would be there forever, after all my great grandmother lived there before we did. It would stay forever.
Time changes all things, people say. I never believed that would apply to my farmhouse, at least until one day when I was speaking with my dad. All of us had gone our own way; knowing that Dad had some serious health problems, he and I talked of what would happen when he was gone. Of course, I already had it figured out how Mom and Dad could take care of the house and we would help. Dad was willing to let me have the farmhouse, but he surprised me when he said that he knew when he was gone my brother would get everything and “there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.” My heart was heavy but not wanting to upset Mom and Dad I kept my mouth quiet, until Mom called one day.
“Bren, I have something to ask you.”
“Ok. What’s up?”
“Would you be okay with me letting your brother have the land and house?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I thought that was all decided that each of us would get a third of the home place. Craig got his when he built down back, Dawn was going to take hers in the field, and I would get the house.”
“Well, I just thought since he’s here and...” Her voice fell off as she realized I wasn’t saying much.
Needless to say, the conversation went south quickly. Promising to call later, I hung up and vented for the next hour, alone in my car, on my way to work.
By the time my dad passed, I figured she would have changed her mind and the house would be fine. It wasn’t. The day my dad was buried was the last day anyone stayed in my old farmhouse. The windows were dark and silent, and the yard had a forlorn, neglected air to it. Three years after losing my dad, the welcome I had always felt was gone. My old friend stood forlorn, neglected, and overrun with weeds and squirrels. There was no reproach in the sad façade of my house, just a feeling of loss as I watched the windows let in the rain and weather.
The magic was gone from the home of my early years and imagination. It had fallen into disrepair and lifelessness from lack of care and love.
Five years after losing my dad, I went to say good bye to the house. It was too late my brother had finally done what he’d wanted to since he was in school. He had bulldozed the old farmhouse, leaving it a pile of rubble. There was nothing left of the place that heard my childish dreams and stories. The only thing left was a pile of dirt and the granite steps where my great grandmother had stood for a picture as a young woman.
I still have that picture of my great grandmother. A young woman in a cotton housedress with an apron over the front, her dark hair braided and coiled around her head. Looking at the photographer with arms folded across her waist and a quiet, satisfied smile on her face. Our house behind her, white paint shining in the sunlight and the granite steps clean and straight.
Still looking for a house, Mom packed me up one day with Dad at work and the other two kids in school and went house hunting again. As we drove down the tree lined dirt road, I decided this was the best place so far. A sight unseen, the house called to my six-year-old spirit. Coming up on the farmhouse from the back, I saw white shingles and a large field ringed by trees and a stone wall. “Come explore me,” they seemed to say, and I was ready to go.
Mom, having been through the “finding a new home” process before. wasn’t quite so sure. As she drove into the dirt drive and parked our older white Rambler in front of the porch to park, I got ready to get out. “Not this time Bren, you wait here and be quiet until I come back. I’m going to talk to them and they won’t want kids running around.”
Grudgingly, I sat back down on the seat. Knowing I couldn’t argue with her, I figured I’d wait a little bit and then find a reason to get out. I didn’t get my stubborn nature from my dad you know.
The day seemed to drag as Mom stood on the porch talking to the lady that came to the door. Dressed in long shorts to the knees and a loose cotton shirt, she looked old. I knew that because her hair was white and cut short. At that age I thought everyone with short and or white hair was old. As I watched Mom talking I thought that we finally had a house to move to, until Mom turned and started back toward the car. I could feel the tears start, I already loved the house, wanted to live there, just from seeing the outside, now we didn’t even get to see the inside.
“Okay, you can get out. We’re going to look at the inside and Mrs. A said she thought you might want to come too.”
It didn’t take long for my short little legs to jump out of the car and hit the driveway. I just knew this was our house. We walked up three steps and stepped into the hallway. Another door opened into the kitchen and we began the “tour” of the house. To me, it was huge. The kitchen was bigger than the one with the mended screen door, there was a chair by the window, and the dining table would fit. The rest of the house was just as amazing to me. There were three bedrooms, so I only had to share with my sister now. All of the rooms were spacious with nice windows to let the sun in. In all my six years I’d never lived in one so big. As we started up the stairs, I heard Mrs. A say that she would be living upstairs during the summer, awesome built in neighbors, I knew this was “The One”.
In the last room she showed us, her daughter’s bedroom upstairs, I saw a huge stuffed tiger. Mrs. A must have seen my eyes light up because she gave it to me. I couldn’t believe my luck. We had found our new house and the old lady liked me.
Mom and Mrs. A decided on rental conditions and when we would move in. I was busy exploring my new yard, so I didn’t hear them until Mom called me back to the car.
Saturday came quickly. Mom and I had been packing boxes all week. My brother Craig, my older sister Dawn and I were helping Mom carry boxes into the back bedroom. Everything went smoothly as they continued carrying in the boxes. I had found something else to do. I introduced myself to Mrs. A’s family and proceeded to visit with these people I had just met.
I knew the boxes were finished when Craig told me we needed to leave. It was dark outside and thinking about reading at bedtime, I panicked. I said, “I need to get my book” and headed for the back room.
“Get yourself back here. We’ll be here in a couple of days, you can finish it then.” As always there was no point arguing with Mom.
The first day of school and moving to the farmhouse happened together. It was exciting, but more than that, I felt like this was where I belonged. The old farmhouse welcomed me with its open fields to explore and the rooms that welcomed me each day after school. All three of us enjoyed playing in the fields and the edges of the forest. My sister and I would try to rebuild the rock walls where they had fallen down from disuse and neglect. My brother, Craig, was mainly interested in the woods and proximity to the pond and brook down the road. He enjoyed hunting, trapping, and fishing but always seemed to feel the old house wasn’t good enough. He liked new, fancier houses.
I couldn’t have been older than fourth grade when Mrs. A decided to sell the house. She gave Mom and Dad first chance and of course they bought it. That’s when we found out that my great – grandmother had lived there as a young woman with her first husband. Later I found a picture of her standing in front of the granite steps, long dark hair braided and curled around her head, an apron over the front of her dress, arms folded, and her ever present smile. She hadn’t changed much over the years except her braided hair coil had turned to white. The granite steps were still in place, the only difference from the photo was that the front door wasn’t the one used for entry now.
As years went by, I looked forward to coming home at night, from school or work, to the soft light from the windows welcoming me back. Even when I married and moved away the house still felt comforting to me each time I came back for vacation. Age left a mark on it, the paint faded, and little things made its mark on my home. One time I would see a new fence for the dog pen, that my folks had put up. The next might be a flower bed where the circle drive used to be. Small changes that tried to change the heart of the old house. They didn’t matter, she still spoke to my heart with each visit. Calmness and joy shown through the lights touching the yard in the evening and I always knew the place would be there forever, after all my great grandmother lived there before we did. It would stay forever.
Time changes all things, people say. I never believed that would apply to my farmhouse, at least until one day when I was speaking with my dad. All of us had gone our own way; knowing that Dad had some serious health problems, he and I talked of what would happen when he was gone. Of course, I already had it figured out how Mom and Dad could take care of the house and we would help. Dad was willing to let me have the farmhouse, but he surprised me when he said that he knew when he was gone my brother would get everything and “there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.” My heart was heavy but not wanting to upset Mom and Dad I kept my mouth quiet, until Mom called one day.
“Bren, I have something to ask you.”
“Ok. What’s up?”
“Would you be okay with me letting your brother have the land and house?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I thought that was all decided that each of us would get a third of the home place. Craig got his when he built down back, Dawn was going to take hers in the field, and I would get the house.”
“Well, I just thought since he’s here and...” Her voice fell off as she realized I wasn’t saying much.
Needless to say, the conversation went south quickly. Promising to call later, I hung up and vented for the next hour, alone in my car, on my way to work.
By the time my dad passed, I figured she would have changed her mind and the house would be fine. It wasn’t. The day my dad was buried was the last day anyone stayed in my old farmhouse. The windows were dark and silent, and the yard had a forlorn, neglected air to it. Three years after losing my dad, the welcome I had always felt was gone. My old friend stood forlorn, neglected, and overrun with weeds and squirrels. There was no reproach in the sad façade of my house, just a feeling of loss as I watched the windows let in the rain and weather.
The magic was gone from the home of my early years and imagination. It had fallen into disrepair and lifelessness from lack of care and love.
Five years after losing my dad, I went to say good bye to the house. It was too late my brother had finally done what he’d wanted to since he was in school. He had bulldozed the old farmhouse, leaving it a pile of rubble. There was nothing left of the place that heard my childish dreams and stories. The only thing left was a pile of dirt and the granite steps where my great grandmother had stood for a picture as a young woman.
I still have that picture of my great grandmother. A young woman in a cotton housedress with an apron over the front, her dark hair braided and coiled around her head. Looking at the photographer with arms folded across her waist and a quiet, satisfied smile on her face. Our house behind her, white paint shining in the sunlight and the granite steps clean and straight.