I wanted to share this, with you all this Sunday morning. I wrote it on the ferry today, and its something close to my heart. I hope you enjoy and take something from it, because it is almost too much for me alone. ... There is a farm. Its an old farm; no ducks swim in its pond and the empty beehives are stacked, covered with moss along its broken wire fence. Its right on the highway in our sleepy town and I pass it everyday on my way to the ferry into the city. Its a beautiful piece of land, where someone cleared away the dense brush and trees long ago to cut out a life with what they could manage. There are two old houses on the farm. Both in neglect, they have passed through time with the families that lived there, having additions built, and serving the people who loved that land. They were once one-room farm houses, built with just enough space to house the small family, a wood stove, maybe a father a mother and two small children, I imagine. They have long needed repair and a decent coat of paint, but they are aging with the land and the ancient orchard that was planted by hand. Beautiful heritage Braeburn apples, Gravensteins, Pippins, quince and winter pears. Plum and cherry. All old breeds that are scarce and rare these days, that quietly protest how far we have come in the industrialization of farming and growing our food. These genetics are being lost at a staggering rate, and they will soon be gone forever. These trees were planted by the people who tried to tame the land they built their farm on. They were chosen as pollinators, and feed for their livestock and for themselves. They made cider for the winter and their branches were trimmed and chipped for smoking fish and meat on the farm. The spiny plums grew like a hedge to keep out the deer and the elk, protecting their food crops and feed storage. Some of these trees dont produce anymore. They have needed a pruning for decades, and the new residents lacked the forethought or the know-how. But they are holding onto the land that those first people lived and loved on. The farm has been for sale for years. A small, hand-painted sign propped up on a cinder block at the end of the winding driveway changes every few years, lowering the price every time, for this piece of land that seems like more work than its worth. But I love this farm. It is a quiet, beautiful place. I never knew who lived there, only seeing the refuse and vehicles of the people who came and went frequently as the rent was so cheap. I never spoke to the original homesteaders, who died before I was born. But I love this farm. And so did they. When I look at the old stables and the pens for small livestock, I see that they did. It represents something to me that we have lost, and something, that in my short life, I have tried to reclaim and breathe life back into. Those trees are old ghosts of a different time, and hold a heritage and a richness uncommon to our world now. To me it means a return to old ways, to simple, clean living and love for the land and learning ones place in it. A few days ago, they began cutting the orchard down. There are burn piles, heaped 10 feet high with those proud fruit trees, some of which have stood more than fifty years in that quiet place. The pickets of the wire fence that long guarded the property line have been snared into a pile at the edge of the road, and there are excavators parked near the holes where the apple trees strong roots held fast. The earth is raw and red. I died a little inside when I saw it, and it has stayed with me these last couple of days. When we passed it this morning, I broke down and cried. I am still weeping as I write this, and my heart is broken for this piece of land and its people, that have been forgotten. The loss I feel is not just mine, but is generational. The people who loved those trees are not here to feel this, so I do, for them. Someone from the city bought the land and saw potential in the raw space that was there. But not in what was in that space. I wish I could have bought that farm. In a few years I was thinking I might be able to make an offer on it, if I worked a bit harder. If only we had had a bit more time. But now, I reflect on what this means for me, and the modest farm I am already trying to eke out of the land. Our fruit trees are small, but strong. They attract the bees we rely on and shade the crops we grown underneath. They feed the birds and the insects that I have come to know by name and love. I will have years with my trees, on our shady beautiful piece of land. Many years in which to get to know them, take care of them, respect them and rely on them. They will become a part of me. But I will grow old. One day my children will be stewards of my land, and they will see the love and the effort I have put into my life there. Where I will raise them, and what I will raise them with. They will begin to take care of the trees, to know their names and their history and their importance to our human story. But maybe they wont. My children might leave this place. The land might sell, and we might be forgotten in time. My trees might be cut down and burned in a pile like the ones that were so loved, for so long. Like those ghosts of the farm that I loved from afar. I hope it doesnt have to that way, but that is what the small farm, with a history I barely know, means to me. But I will do my best, which Is all I can. I hope that someone looks at my work, and my land, at my farm and the life that we built there, and feels a small part of what I do now. Because if they do, I feel like there is hope for a different life. A clean life. And someone might just find their place in the world because of that.
Posted on: Sun, 07 Dec 2014 17:53:49 +0000
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