It was a warm April morning, and the skies were dark in the distance. A low rumble could be heard, a reminder that storms came without warning this time of year. The road was full of ruts and potholes and the going was slow. The years were kind to me and yet my most memorable memories were of this farm, the field, barns, and the old farmhouse. I grew up here and walked these fields and swam in the creek now dried up and dusty. It was a place that I would always call home.
The fields were overgrown, unplowed, and dusty trails cut across the land in all directions, revealing deep paths where deer walked in the night and early mornings looking for food and water. The land slowly reverted back to a time before my granddaddy walked the acres seeing in his eyes a home to live in, crops ripe in the fields, and livestock roaming toward the distant creek.
It had been a place where family and friends gathered together at harvest time reaping the bounty that grew in the good soil, the rich moist dirt. Daddy and my uncles built long tables and filled them with food from our land and we rejoiced in our blessings. The children played and the sounds of laughter echoed across the fields and old men sat together remembering a life well-lived.
Mom was in her element sharing recipes passed down from generations and the grandmas were quilting on the porch telling tales, the folklore of our generations to the older children so that they would know why we farmed the land. It was a time of abundance, of love, community, and blessings.
The farmhouse was the center of our life, the place where we shared meals and said grace. We talked about what needed doing over a morning breakfast and prepared for the coming day. We believed in our way of living, we cherished family, sat in church on Sunday, and said our prayers at night.
I walked under the pecan tree that was in our front yard and a sadness came to my heart, the old farmhouse was gone. Even when I became quiet and listened, I could only hear the wind blowing across our farm and crows cawing in the distance. There were no whispers heard, no ghost in the distance only the quiet of something that was abandoned, left behind and only the memories remain.