My grandparents had a house and land along the Missouri River when I was growing up. We called it "the farm," but it wasn't generally a working agricultural property, at least not insomuch as I was involved. It was simply my grandparents' land, where my family grew enormous vegetable gardens, expansive lawns, and lanky children.
I spent most of my childhood summers on the farm, and can picture the land, boundaries, and features in detail. Recently, the area has been devastated by flooding as the dam above town releases as much water as possible, as quickly as possible. Where once stood a grove of cottonwoods, natural castles we'd climb to rest in shady branches, now treetops are only accessible in aerial photography. The rocky banks my grandfather carefully rip-rapped, those places where we skipped rocks, swam, and learned to windsurf in shallow water, are midstream of a quickly flowing and ever widening current. The garden lot, where we grew produce in an area sometimes as large as a soccer field, is completely underwater, as is the small row of trees we planted for a windbreak.
The family house was sold years ago after my grandpa died, and subsequently remodeled to twice its size and grandeur. No longer a family gathering spot for the immense array of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and near-family friends, that property has been foreign to me for years. While the original "farm" may be burned in my mind more clearly than Eden, the reality of its recent seasons bears little resemblance to my memories. Gone are the origins of Sunday coffees and sunburned ice cream breaks in the garden, replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows and viewpoints at every entertaining opportunity. With only photos providing me access to that place now, I could quickly forget the irritations of flies, mosquitoes, heat, droughts, and flooded creek banks that likely still worried its inhabitants last summer. Yet now it stands as an island, surrounded by the windblown wakes, nearly immersed sandbags, and totally inaccessible except for aerial photos. The garden is under feet of water and waves. All of this makes me very sad in some regard, but also very grateful to have had the life I enjoyed as a child.
The farm made me, and still makes me, better.
See, this week I took Obi-3 out to our local farmland near the river. We picked strawberries - me putting them neatly into long, flat bins, and him popping ripe, juicy berries into his mouth. As I bent over rows on the first day of summer, soaking in sunshine and tasting delicious candy-from-the-vine, I thought about how I could really just live out there. I wondered why, in spite of the fact that I truly do love my urban home and neighbors, the farm makes me better - a happier, more laid-back, gentler and yet more productive person. On the farm, I find myself surrounded by sweet voices of strangers and friends, varying generations, and far less priority on a clock. Time on the farm brings back the familiar, comforting smell of dirt mixed with sunscreen and bug spray and wind. And while it's a different river, crossing the towering bridge to our nearby farms takes me back to the countless trips over the river and down the road to Mamie & Bampa's house.
I think there's something healing about returning to those simple, agricultural bits of my heritage, which, like the banks of the Missouri River, have widened in recent years. I'm no longer just a mid-western, ballerina, from a big-loud-family-with-deep-roots girl. I may still be all of those things, but I'm also an urban mama, living in a mecca of liberal (er, uh, "progressive") politics, and raising Irish dancing, baseball-throwing, homeschooling gardeners of my own. Diverse neighbors and friends make up the fabric of our social circle, and a complex, growing web of boisterous family gatherings beg our patience and participation. Lately, I've been homesick for the familiar tenets of my childhood, including the farm and that big family I didn't think I'd miss so acutely. Yet taking my boys out to the farm reminds me that we can grow where we're planted. And that reality check, along with the sweetness of an early summer strawberry, makes me better.
I spent most of my childhood summers on the farm, and can picture the land, boundaries, and features in detail. Recently, the area has been devastated by flooding as the dam above town releases as much water as possible, as quickly as possible. Where once stood a grove of cottonwoods, natural castles we'd climb to rest in shady branches, now treetops are only accessible in aerial photography. The rocky banks my grandfather carefully rip-rapped, those places where we skipped rocks, swam, and learned to windsurf in shallow water, are midstream of a quickly flowing and ever widening current. The garden lot, where we grew produce in an area sometimes as large as a soccer field, is completely underwater, as is the small row of trees we planted for a windbreak.
The family house was sold years ago after my grandpa died, and subsequently remodeled to twice its size and grandeur. No longer a family gathering spot for the immense array of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and near-family friends, that property has been foreign to me for years. While the original "farm" may be burned in my mind more clearly than Eden, the reality of its recent seasons bears little resemblance to my memories. Gone are the origins of Sunday coffees and sunburned ice cream breaks in the garden, replaced with floor-to-ceiling windows and viewpoints at every entertaining opportunity. With only photos providing me access to that place now, I could quickly forget the irritations of flies, mosquitoes, heat, droughts, and flooded creek banks that likely still worried its inhabitants last summer. Yet now it stands as an island, surrounded by the windblown wakes, nearly immersed sandbags, and totally inaccessible except for aerial photos. The garden is under feet of water and waves. All of this makes me very sad in some regard, but also very grateful to have had the life I enjoyed as a child.
The farm made me, and still makes me, better.
See, this week I took Obi-3 out to our local farmland near the river. We picked strawberries - me putting them neatly into long, flat bins, and him popping ripe, juicy berries into his mouth. As I bent over rows on the first day of summer, soaking in sunshine and tasting delicious candy-from-the-vine, I thought about how I could really just live out there. I wondered why, in spite of the fact that I truly do love my urban home and neighbors, the farm makes me better - a happier, more laid-back, gentler and yet more productive person. On the farm, I find myself surrounded by sweet voices of strangers and friends, varying generations, and far less priority on a clock. Time on the farm brings back the familiar, comforting smell of dirt mixed with sunscreen and bug spray and wind. And while it's a different river, crossing the towering bridge to our nearby farms takes me back to the countless trips over the river and down the road to Mamie & Bampa's house.
I think there's something healing about returning to those simple, agricultural bits of my heritage, which, like the banks of the Missouri River, have widened in recent years. I'm no longer just a mid-western, ballerina, from a big-loud-family-with-deep-roots girl. I may still be all of those things, but I'm also an urban mama, living in a mecca of liberal (er, uh, "progressive") politics, and raising Irish dancing, baseball-throwing, homeschooling gardeners of my own. Diverse neighbors and friends make up the fabric of our social circle, and a complex, growing web of boisterous family gatherings beg our patience and participation. Lately, I've been homesick for the familiar tenets of my childhood, including the farm and that big family I didn't think I'd miss so acutely. Yet taking my boys out to the farm reminds me that we can grow where we're planted. And that reality check, along with the sweetness of an early summer strawberry, makes me better.
