About the time my Grandmother started considering an offer to sell the family farm, many years ago, my mom and I drove down for a visit. Actually, Mom was there at least once a week, but you know how it goes when you’re just starting the growing-up thing. You start pulling away from all the people and places and things that were so much a part of you when you were a kid. So I didn’t visit as much as I had all my life. But on this lovely June day, I did go along, and I decided to bring a camera. With color film in it, no less. That was kind of a big deal, back in the day.
I made it my business to get captures of some of the sights that were so much a part of all of our lives … my mom’s and mine, but also all the cousins and aunts and uncles.
Here we are on the porch looking out onto the sandy-dirt drive beyond which was a lovely expansive lawn … a place where on glorious Sunday summer afternoons, a picnic table and lawn chairs and family members were to be found in large numbers. The lawn was filled with shady trees, I remember a willow, I think, and flowers and a stone wall. The ground sloped down on the other side of the stone wall where Gramma had a rather large truck garden. For those of you who don’t know that expression, in our family it meant the house garden … beans and tomatoes and strawberries and just about anything else a home-farm can grow. My grandmother had a couple of amazing green thumbs. Beyond the little garden stretched acres of fields given over to tobacco in the old days, but by this time, probably corn.
I think a lot of us have an old family farm in our histories. They house some sweet memories, don’t they? In my case, the house is gone and has been for many years, now.
But not the memories.
Do you remember your grandparent’s home? Care to share a memory in the comments section below? I’d love to hear it!!
As always, a click into the image takes you to a view that’s much clearer with a much less goofy watermark.