Memories of the Family Farmhouse

The family farmhouse where my dad spent some of his growing-up years, the house he brought his new bride home to, the house that eventually housed six children and their sometimes over-whelmed parents lies crumbled beneath branches and other grove litter waiting for a match.

Once upon a time, a fence surrounded its yard--a yard where a softball game followed every summer, noon meal. A garden with beans and carrots and strawberries lay nearby. Apple trees beckoned those interested in an afternoon apple or an adventurous climb.

When I was very little, my brothers and I spent most of one summer on the screened in porch just off the kitchen. Battling measles and mumps, we lay limp and wished for summer breezes as Mom nursed us back to health while doing the laundry, cooking, and other summer chores.

My memories are primarily of the kitchen where all good smells came from. After that, believe it or not, it is the back steps. It was here that we rushed up the steps after school to hope for a cookie or a cold drink on warm fall days or hot chocolate on a wintry day. It was here that we rushed out the door to the station wagon on our way to church or to a picture show on the school grounds. It was here that Dad came in from his chores and we knew that now we could eat.

After starting college, when I could return home, it was here--climbing these steps--that I knew I was finally home. The steps were chipped, not always clean in spite of my mother's efforts. Worn chore coats and sweatshirts hung from hooks behind the door. When home, I would take one and feel safe as I ventured outside to find my dad or just walk down the lane or from corn crib to tool shed--just to let it all sink in. Home...

I have lived in many houses in my 70 some years. If I could build a house all my own, it would be a replica of this old farm house. Home.