So many of my childhood memories are anchored to the farm where we lived until I was six. I have already written many of the stories that happened there, but there are so many more to come.
I find myself coming back to them often. I think it is at least partly due to the fact that my parents were still young, and so was my big brother. My brother and I hadn’t grown up yet and found our ways in the world. We were all still together. I can go back there in my memories, where they are all still alive.
The farm is where I began to learn about the world. It was the setting for so many firsts—first adventures, first friendships, first discoveries.
A few years ago, my daughter, Liz, drove me by the farm. It is all gone now—the buildings, everything. It has all been turned into pasture. But to me, it lives on in my mind, just the way it was in the 1950s.
I can still point out where the barn was, the garage, Dad’s fuel tank, and the chicken yard. I still know exactly where the house was, and I can see the interior as if I was standing in it right now. I know the furniture placement, and I remember how Mom had it decorated.
It has been sixty-eight years since we drove out of that driveway for the last time.
The buildings are gone.
The people I loved are gone.
But in my memory, the farm is still there—just like my family.
Through My Eyes, Gently 