"The Farm"
By Travis, period 4
My life as a young boy was extremely sheltered. I was never in daycare, had no "playdates." We didn’t even go to church until well after I was in school. We lived in a small house far outside of town, with few neighbors around. Our only close neighbors (1/4 mile being considered close) was my grandparents, who lived on the other side of the gravel road. There I got the only other human contact outside my parents and sisters.
Every Sunday, all of my mother’s siblings would bring their children to a potluck of sorts. My grandpa Chuck never tired of feeding us cookies, candy, and pop, and my grandmother was a wonderful cook. But until it was dark, my cousins and I would roam the property.
Now, at that time we owned about 50 acres on the west side of the road. My grandparent’s property lines and ours pretty much matched, because we had bought the land from them. Our side was hilly, and not much good for raising crops. Chuck’s half was flat as a pancake, with the exception of the ditch that both our properties shared. About the only trees beside scrub cedar was cottonwood, except down by the river.
The farm had two soybean fields, divided by the ditch and wrecks of equipment lining it. The south field had a panhandle east of the house and barn, and had a small ravine cutting it in half. A small swamp extended about 20 yards into both fields, full of all sorts of things from tires and half-buried tractors to frogs and salamanders.
It was here that we were turned loose in. There were two apple trees which gave fruit in fall, and many old cars and pieces of farm equipment to climb in and around on. The best thing of all, it seemed, was the rope swing.
Over the widest, deepest part of the ditch my uncle Mark had climbed up this massive tree, tying a rope about 3 inches thick to the top. The gap between the north side and south sde was about 15 feet, and the drop about 11. We would spend all day going back and forth across. There was no objective, no destination across the way. No, the journey was the point of this. It wasn’t enough just to swing, we had to go as high and as fast as we could. We set up large cable spools on the north side so we could get enough momentum to get across, as the worst thing that could happen would to get stuck in the middle, swaying aimlessly and waiting for someone to pull you to the side. On the south side there was already logs and a car to climb on, so we got going pretty well. I remember one time when I fell off and landed with my chest less than 6 inches from a stick that my cousin had stuck in the ground (thanks, Tim). Good times.
In the summer, we also had squirt gun fights. Being one of those born in-between two different generations, those cousins older than me and those younger, there was not a whole lot I could do. On the 4th of July, we would go down there to shoot of fireworks. There was very little we had not blown up. Beer bottles, beer cans, barbies stolen from my little sisters (insert maniacal laugh here), we even shot bottle rockets across the river at cows. We had to be careful around my uncle’s dog, however because he would eat lit firecrackers.
Unfortunately, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an en. When my grandfather died, this tradition ended very badly. My mother’s half of the family split into factions, each accusing the other of horrible things while doing injustices behind their back. None of us younger folk took part in this, of course, as I, being the oldest and wisest of my siblings, had already lost my parents trust by revealing to one of my uncles by marriage that my dad did not have the highest opinion of his intelligence. And, as I had just barely mastered the act of speech, I certainly had no diplomacy or tact. I imagine similar incidents prevented my cousins from taking part in that long argument.
It has been many years since my grandparents died. My uncle Mark now runs the farm. There is no cousin day, some of them I have not seen for years. The rope has been taken down, and cars have been backed in front of the area where we once stood in line. Even the dog, Jack, has long since passed away. This place is nothing like it once was.