I’ve just returned from a week spent in the midwest helping my parents move out of the farm they’ve lived in for what seems like forever. I think it was was sad for everyone to see the farm change hands, but my parents have grown too old for the demands of so much land. Chores like tilling, planting, watering, snow clearing, and grass cutting exact a lot from people in their 70′s, even people as energetic as my parents. It’s crazy, all the energy thay have.
Mom's giant tomatoes
Friends stopped by to say goodbye and get their last free bushel of tomatoes or peppers.
Last bushel.
Although it’s tough letting go of that beautiful stretch of green, we couldn’t be happier with the people who bought the farm. The new owner drives a school bus and had her eye on the property for a long while before it went on sale. She used to drive past the farm and think, “That’s going to be mine someday.” She waited for it to go on the market, and then she waited for the price to drop when housing prices plummeted. The land is perfect for her Mustang and seven other ponies, and she has all sorts of plans for pasture land and pens. When my father handed her the keys at the end of our three-day move, she began to cry.
I’m so glad it didn’t go to someone intent on a profit motive who would have divided the land into one-acre plots and built useless earth-toned McMansions on it. I like to imagine Mustangs running around the pasture.
A tomato as big as D's face.
My sister D flew in from California to help with our ghetto-style move. My mother — who is usually extremely organized and plans further ahead than anyone I know — doesn’t do moves well. She’d spent the past month loading the car with small items and driving them over to the new home, all while nagging my father to get started on the garage. All to no avail. I expected everything to be boxed up and ready to go, but there wasn’t a box in sight and we were forced to scrounge around for empty bushels, bins, and plastic bags to load all the kitchen items into.
For thirty years, my father worked in a factory that made tractors and farm implements, so the garage was a mass of wrenches, pipes, pumps, drill bits, and toolbox after toolbox of nails, screws, and screwdrivers. He couldn’t bear to give any of it away. Men get really attached to their tools, it seems, sort of like me and my books. I think my father must be the nexus of my fascination with men who can fix things, build things, or grow things.
Kittens found between the hay bales.
It took us forever to clear that garage. Then there was the old chicken coop out back, full of my mother’s canning jars, hoes, picks, axes, and about a ton of wood.
A friend came by and pulled up one of the young plum trees to replant in his yard, because the new owner is going to clear out all the fruit trees. Hopefully they’ll keep the giant weeping willows in front of the house.
None of us will miss the house–the land, yes, but not the house. It’s in a sadly decrepit state and should just be razed. The basement floods, the roof has mysterious leaks, and the septic system is a nightmare. Kudos to the new owners if they’re able to pull off a renovation.
The new house is just what my parents needed: a three bedroom ranch with just enough backyard to plant a few tomatoes and cucumbers.
I’ll miss the blackberry bush along the back fence, and the wild strawberries that grow alongside the road.
I’m amazed at my parent’s energy. My father spent his first full day in the new house fixing the plumbing system in the basement, and my mother never stopped unpacking, cleaning, scrubbing, and lifting. My mother was the electric plug that kept us all charged. I hope I have at least a fraction of their energy when I’m their age. Heck, I wish I had it now.
I’m back in DC, still without a phone and still unable to drive my car. I’m thinking of conducting an experiment to see how long I can go without the car, but I’ll probably only make it to Oct 1st.
Wheels = freedom.
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