We’re driving down their road now. Anticipation builds in my chest as I pull against my seatbelt to see just a bit further. Soon the backwoods come into view and I know it’s just a moment, just a breath, until I see it, Nana & Papa’s Farm.
I see it now. The back entrance comes into view first. The gravel drive leads behind the barns to the shop, it passes in front of the deep green pond surrounded by cattails and full of tadpoles (&leaches!). Next to the pond, I see Papa’s blueberry patch. In an instant I relive every summer picking berries with my cousins. Limbs heavy with juicy berries we spent days and weeks within the rows, picking, picking, picking. I remember the feel of plump, sun-warmed berries. How I’d handle them with such care so as not crush them. We ate twice as many as we picked, I’m sure.
But we don’t take that drive, not today. Today we continue on a short distance longer down the road and turn just before their mailbox. Here the gravel drive splits again – to the right, a two track that leads past the front porch (which we didn’t use), and right next to house. We turn to the left, the gravel drive connects to a small cement slab right in front of the carport and side door.
When the car is parked, before even, we’re rushing to escape the clutches of our seatbelts and be the first out the door and into the arms of Nana, as she welcomes us at the door. It’s an all out race. Chaos ensues. The ones not first bouncing as they wait to get that hug and kiss from Nana. Kicking our shoes off as fast as we can, we race across the carpet to hug Papa as he’s sitting in his recliner.
Complaints erupt as we’re instructed to help unload the van before we go play. Begrudgingly, we put our shoes on, crushing the back under our heels instead of untying and tying them again. The bags take too long to unload. There’s a squabble over who sleeps where, and who shares with whom.
Done at last! Victory is ours and we escape.
Once outside I breath in the fresh country air. Something feels different here. It always has. Perhaps it’s the way the wind rustles the small leaves on the knobby apple trees in the orchard, or the sound of the birds singing and darting from the tree to tree. Maybe it’s the way the pond ripples as we walk around the edge, small frogs darting from unseen perches to hide in the shadowy depths of the water. Whatever it is, this place breaths in stress and chaos and exhales peace. This place is home.
There’s a small fort made of pallets at the edge of the wood – but to us, it’s not a house made of discarded pallets – it’s a cabin, a castle, a place of safety. We round up some cousins, dig through the dress up box tucked in the basement, and begin our adventure. “Let’s play run away orphans!” Someone shouts.
Suddenly we’re poor orphans, fleeing rom our cruel warden. Fleeing for our very safety! We have a few morsels packed securely in our knapsacks. We find the cabin “what luck!’ we say, but know that we can’t stay long – we’re much too close still… we rest a bit and continue on. and on and on and on. Our path of flight takes us through the apple orchard – we find sustenance in their branches and cool shade under their leaves. We continue fleeing, ‘fear’ driving us on. We cross the gravel road, careful not to be seen and descend into ‘the dunes.’ There’s many hills and crevices here. surely we can find a safe place, we should be able to stay here away… Someone’s calling out! – we look at each other with wide eyes and say, “it’s the mean orphanage lady”…
But it’s not… It’s one of our moms calling us in to wash up and set the table; dinner will be ready soon. We pry ourselves from the dangerous world of orphans on the run and gather up our playthings. Making plans to continue our adventure another time, we trudge back toward the house. Retracing our steps over the gravel road and through the orchard, not stopping at the small cabin we see across the yard in the woods.
When we open the door we are greeted by the most pleasant of smells wafting from the kitchen. Eating is always good here. “If you leave the table hungry, that’s your own fault.” Papa often says. As we pull dishes from the cupboard, Nana asks if we washed our hands. Those of us who didn’t, are sent back down the hall, past the long bench surrounded messy shoes, and past the office to the hall sink or the hall bathroom to wash ‘again.’ When the table’s set, papa and the others watching tv, most likely football, are called.
After dinner, we pile around the tv for a cheesy hallmark movie, or gather someplace else to play a game. Too soon we’re told, “it’s time for bed” and night-time rituals commence. Teeth brushed, hair combed, face washed. And don’t forget to use the bathroom one more time, ‘just in case.’
We’re tucked in, snug as bugs in rugs and the light is turned out. From somewhere in the middle of the basement where we sleep, a voice speaks in the darkness. It’s one of our moms saying a prayer and wishing us “goodnight.” We’re silent as death ’til she leaves. Once we think she’s out of ear-shot, our chatter picks up again. We talk of day’s adventures, make our plans for tomorrow, or someone says, “Sarah, will you tell us a story?”
After a little while, one can never sure exactly how long, we begin to drift off to sleep, one by one. A peace and happiness has settled in the room, and I close my eyes, a smile on my lips.
What adventures will be had tomorrow as we continue our visit to the farm?
Sarah Louise 