The old farmhouse I grew up in is long gone. Torn down for the sake of progress, as a new highway cuts a path of connection and commerce through the heart of it.
I remember it as a simple home, not anything impressive or grand, like the new trendy farmhouses you see on Pinterest or the like. No, there were no marble counter tops, not vaulted ceilings with exposed beams. No gleaming hardwood floors polished to high shine, no white walls, and no large laundry rooms with built-in dog wash sinks.
It was a simple home, two bedrooms down stairs, one bedroom up stairs; a single bathroom to service the whole home, and one large storage/playroom area up stairs. A well used and lived in kitchen, with tiny panty area and fold away doors to hide the washer and drier. Built by my great-grandfather many years ago and a testament to the love and care he had for his family.
The home was old enough that there was a phone nook in the tiny hall way; I vaguely remember my mother having the phone cord stretched all the way down the hall way as she talked to this family member or that while cooking dinner, folding clothes at the table, or cleaning. More than once, I recall being caught by the cord as I run from the back door to the front, playing games with my older brother, as children do. The slap of the screen door behind me as I sought escape.
I loved that old house, even if it was always hot in the summer and cold in the winter. We would open the windows from spring until the first bite of winter, in both rain and shine. There was a wide front porch, one side shaded by a beautiful magnolia tree, the branches thick and low, perfect for climbing and getting lost in for hours.
This was long before home inspections called for railings along the porch edges, so you could jump off and hit the ground running without a care in the world. It wasn’t too high, but just high enough to catch that little thrill of excitement while you were weightless in the air. A white porch swing completed this little slice of country heaven, rocking you slowly into afternoon dreams while the sun kissed you and bees floated lazily from rose bud to rose bud.
While this was a great place to waste away the lazy days of summer, this was a communal place, where the family gathered on hot nights. No, my favorite place was around the back of the house. Stepping onto the large back deck, you would have to walk down the wide, long back steps into the sprawling back yard.
This was every kid’s dream; there was trees to climb, hills to roll down, dogs to chase, grass to stain your jeans, and little dirt paths around the fence to ride bikes on. This was a yard build by and made for kids; I had an older brother and two older cousins, who had lived in the house with my family before I was born. These paths were well-worn and established.
But back in the far corner, tucked away under a leaning peach tree, was a tiny little cove. It wasn’t very big, just enough for a 6 or 7 year old girl to crawl through the hanging branches to reach. Some years back the peach tree itself had taken some damage; maybe a tractor clipped it as it mowed the field on the other side of the fence. Maybe a truck backed into it while someone did repairs to the fence itself. Or maybe the fence had just worn it down over time, pushing unrelenting into the trunk as the tree sought the heavens above.
The little girl that I was didn’t know, or even care, what had happened to that sad little peach tree, only that now, its heavy branches, laden with fruit in the height of summer, would dip down, gently grazing the ground below. It offered a perfect privacy screen, the perfect place to hide away and dream life away. Not even the threat of wasps and bees, seeking the sweet call of peach juice and over ripe fruit, could keep me away. Many a summer night was spent watching the stars peek through the branches, watching the sky darken until I was summoned back into the house by my mother’s call.
At the time, I was obsessed with The Secret Garden; I longed for my own hidden walls, a rope swing to sway over a looking pond, something that was mine and mine alone, to hide and grow in. My brother could never find my secret hiding spot, my mother either. My dad knew though; he had grape vines stretched along the back slop that banked against my lonely tree. I have little doubt that he had seen me crawling in the dirt and fallen leaves to enter my little hobbit hole.
He never said anything; perhaps it was our own secret, our own little space to claim.
When he died, I abandoned my peach tree. It had lost its cocoon of peace, its peaceful calm.
Shortly after that, we moved from that farmhouse; not far, just up the road to a new home we had built closer to my Papaw & Mamaw, my mom’s parents.
There was still a lot of land to explore, rolling hills, green fields, flowing creeks. As time went on, however, I never did find any place as tranquil and soothing as that shade under my peach tree.
When the house was sold, to make way for process, I thought I would visit the old home, walk the paths of my childhood once more, reclaim my peach tree and hidden world. But, I waited too long; before I could bother myself with returning, the house was torn down, the trees cut away, and the land pulled apart.
All I have left of that piece of my childhood are the memories. They burn alive inside just as the memories of my dad do, where they remain, untouched and oblivious to the passage of time.
Maybe one day, when my time has drawn to a close, I can visit that place once more, regaining that calmness and innocents of summers past.
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