I drove out to the old farm house today. It was the first time I had driven out in a while. As I turned off HWY 83, driving down the old familiar road, I noticed the billows of powdery, brown clouds laying wake in my path. The same ones I have written about. As I turn down the sandy road to familiarity, I see the old house is still standing, albeit the sky showing through her weakened frame. She still has her pride, glory and majesty, and oddly curtsying as if to say “hello”, it’s been a while. Or” hey”, I remember you and she looks happy, as if she remembered I belonged. I look into the old house through door-less entries and hear whispers of passed sounds that echo from every corner, forming words that cannot escape its gaping holes and shingle-less roof because they were made by more than just me. Every inch of the old house had seen us, had been us for a long time. At one time she was an embarrassment, but now she is part of a majestic legacy, beautiful in her distress and unwillingness to give up. As you can see her on this page, she seems to beckon you (the reader) to come inside. The floors are warped, partly gone and caved in in places, places where baby steps and grandmas use to stand. The windows are all gone but display the clearest of view when looking in any direction. She doesn’t fear the elements anymore, for now, she can let down her guard. She did her best and pulled her weight for many a year. I touch her door facing and see all those who had entered in, as if looking into a crystal ball. The wind is blowing straight through from one side to the other, carrying her infamous grains of sand. Staring, I can see the new, plastic curtains, bought from M.E. Moses that have been hung, displaying the pride the adornment meant to us, as trivial as that was. I look into the kitchen where all the meals had been prepared, where we prayed and spent so much of our time. The old cabinets are releasing themselves from the walls and the drywall is all gone. It has fallen into a scattered oneness of memories. The old water heater sat in the southwest corner of the kitchen. I can see three cigarettes on top of it that dad left mom every morning when he went to work. The bedrooms look so much smaller now than when I was a child, they too are weathered and seem to be taking the brunt of time and an existence that has been too long for it to endure. An old, old Victrola, way beyond repair sets against the wall in the twin’s bedroom. I have memorized the sounds that it could make, if it could make them again. This place was the shutters and boards that coddled and protected us when times were rough. She now stands alone, in a lonely field, displaying her weathered grayness, becoming less of herself each day. The once tall porch doesn’t look as tall as it once did, it trembles and crumbles with age, yet still has strength to stand. If I look closely through the windowless kitchen, I can see the large fruit trees that used to be behind the house. There was an orchard of peaches and apricots and I can see myself climbing each one of them, sometimes with half ripened apricots in between my teeth. I am glad I got to see you today. Thank you for the memories (good and bad) you have given me my friend. Seeing you reminds me of then!
Copyright @coffeewithcharles.blog (Charles D. Grant)