There's a crunch under my feet as I walk. It's not the typical sound I hear as I walk along the long driveway that leads to the place where I grew up - the place I called home for many years. The winding path with the mystical hill that mist rises from during spring rains has been overtaken with weeds and vegetation - the tracks hardly visible. Evidence that the road was once travelled many times in a day has been reduced to a few small rocks and a rough opening in the trees.
My feet are carrying me away as my pace progresses to a jog. My mind wanders to the moments I remember on this hill. Tobogganing in the dark winter evenings, fearing coyotes may attack at any moment, but feeling protected by my childhood dog, Jake; watching contentedly as the horses munched on the overgrown grass at the back, held captive by the electrified fence and solid metal gate; waiting at the end of the driveway in a shelter of straw bales for my school bus to arrive, passing the time by singing softly so no one could hear. Jake's long since passed, the gate no longer hangs, the wires of the electric fence dangle worthlessly to the ground, and the shelter is completely obliterated by weather and wildlife following winters of inactivity. Suddenly, my heart is sinking.
My lungs feel like they are on fire - my throat and ears itch intensely. Allergies overtake my body and I'm reminded of what held me back for so many years - asthma. I slow to a walk again, briefly pause at the end of the property and realise I need to take this walk. It's been many years since I've allowed myself to really look at what I left behind... really see what time does to something when you've put it out of your mind.
I enter the pasture through the large hole in the fence, again once guarded by a strong metal gate, and pass along between the dugout and the large wooded area of the pasture. I almost tiptoe now. The grass is long beneath my feet and makes too much noise in the silence of the day. I'm watching and waiting. For what I'm really not sure - maybe it's to catch a glimpse of wildlife taking up residence... making use of the land which sits untouched... reclaiming what was separated by 3 lines of electrified fence for so many years. I see only birds, and a lone goose on the water. I envision Lucas, our large, clumsy paint emerging from the woods - sticks poking and scratching his thick, impervious skin - arriving unharmed to visit for a moment. His soft, bristly nose reaching up to my face to touch good morning. I'd look him and the others over for any scrapes or injuries... they were my pride and joy, and I would do anything to make sure they were safe and sound.
My head snaps back at the sound of a "plop" in the dugout. Unsure what the source of the sound was, I step closer to the edge of the dugout itself. Even through the clouded, muddied waters, I can make out the its shape - unchanged. I remember hours of sliding down the sides of the dugout. Perfectly plotted paths to maximise air on hitting certain portions of the caverns and protrusions that make up its walls. I make a mental note to remember this - I'll have to take the kids next year in the winter. I'll have to show them the tricks and the trades of dugout tobogganing.
I continue on my way and reach the "new" riding arena. The new arena was developed on the far East side of the pasture - probably the largest and flattest portion of the land. I struggle to remember if we had completed the fence entirely or not... only a few fence posts remain. No wires. No fence boards. There stands a lone metal drum at the far end of the arena. Grass and weeds surround the drum, almost as if it welcomed the inorganic matter to the earth. I push on it, but it doesn't move. Gopher holes now cover the landscape. One would be hard pressed to find a path of travel deemed safe on horseback - never mind a continuous one. This arena didn't see much use. My show days were over, and my interest in arena based riding waned. I was moving on.
The crunch underfoot changes and I look for a reason why. The grass has now changed to incorporate a mixture of alfalfa - a succulent, nutrient rich plant the horses loved. Untouched it lays nearly flattened to the ground, but offers enough cushion that my step now has a spring to it. I question how any grass or plant is expected to grow through this thick layer, and wonder why no wildlife has arrived to graze on its existence. I realise the nomadic nature of the animals who would consume it would not allow for them to take up residence permanently on the land, but in my dreamy thinking, I had hoped it would.
The middle strand of wire on the back of the pasture appears to have been cut. I don't go to the end to see if that is, indeed, the case, but assume that it is. The wire is double stranded and twisted - unlikely to just break. The remainder of the wires remain intact. Perhaps we improperly secured it. In either event, the result is the same. It hangs and droops providing no method of containing livestock. I glance around to other fences, also reduced to nothing. Posts laying on the ground, broken or rotting, with the wires perilously hanging on the ground. Wooden gates tilt at odd angles with their previously healthy light brown colour, now faded. Gray. Broken. Unusable. Unrecoverable.
I make my way through the old wooden gate and stand in a large structure still standing. Its sides are made from plywood recycled from an old livestock yard. White paint still apparent, they are in surprisingly good shape. The roof, however, has not fared so well. The rafters are wet and rotting - the roof has giant gaping holes. The wind is blowing very hard, but the building stands strong - unwavering. I feel safe within the confines. My mind fills with memories of the horses escaping the summer heat and bugs. I remember the smell. Pungent, but not offencive. I can see their heads drooping... dosing in refuge... skin twitching intermittently as a fly would land. I'd run my hands over their soft skin, untangling knots in their manes, slowly working my way to the ears. The hair at the base of the ears so soft that I couldn't help but find it comforting.
This large structure sits on the Southeast corner of what we termed the "sacrifice area". Not intended as a sacrifice of life, but rather plants. It was a small pasture, used to the point that it was entirely dirt. This is where the horses were contained until they were allowed to graze on the grass. Left to their own devices, they would gorge until no grass remained and their bellies extended in all directions. The sacrifice area was the means used to balance the pasture use. It's now completely covered in weeds, and requires a significant amount of effort to navigate. I watch as spiders weave in an out of the strands of life at a speed incredible for their size. I follow one until it completely disappears, presumably returning to a virtual insect city hidden beneath the thick layer of plants.
The round corral - used to house horses when they first arrived and contain mares that were about to birth now stands in knee high weeds. I walk through the opening and into the small shelter that sits at the one end. Ironically, a small tree has taken up residence in the shelter. A long piece of bark droops over one of its branches. I look around to see the source, gradually glancing upwards. I can see the bark has fallen off of an edge of a board used for the roof of the building. The ground is littered with these small strips of bark - none as big as the one resting on the branch of the newly formed tree. I look up again, and catch sight of a large spotlight mounted up, just inside of the shelter doorway. My mind floods with memories of mares foaling. Tireless nights spent watching... waiting.. until inevitably, one night it would happen. Anxiety would overwhelm us, hands trembling, as we observed the tiny feet and nose of a brand new life making its way into the world. My heart pangs for the memories of those first precious moments between mare and foal. Now that I've had my own children, I'm confident if I were ever to witness a birth again, it would take on a much different meaning to me. I'd empathise in an entirely different way.
I make my way now to the smaller pasture that was originally designed for our sheep. Page wire rims the exterior - still standing strong. I remember hours of observation with my mom, perched behind the small boulder in the trees, armed with binoculars and a small medical bag. Any chance to watch new life was one worth waiting for. Birth never got old.
I walk along the fence, my hand lightly grasping the lines that would have carried electric voltage - now dead and limp. Wooden portions that later replaced wires for the horses are broken or barely standing. Teeth marks etch the edges that we once religiously applied copious amounts of dish soap to in an attempt to disinterest the mouths of bored horses. The now abandoned boards mark the abrupt separation from our farm.
I stand and cry. Inevitably - I knew I would. The place that housed some of the happiest moments of my life is abandoned. Weathering. Ageing. Dying. Life has gone on, and I have to let go. Returning this place to what it used to be is no longer possible. No longer tangible... but not forgotten. I wipe my tears away, and take a deep breath. I hide my sorrow, and try to remember that there are other happy moments to be had. Those were my memories. They were a part of me. It's time for me to help my children make memories of their own here, and it's obvious they won't be the same as mine.
I return to the house and sit at the table with my mom. During some small talk, a deeper conversation develops - one that's been sidestepped too many times.
"I'm glad you guys came this weekend...," her voice begins to tremble and her eyes move away from mine. "I was afraid I would die alone."
"Mom. MOM.," I say, begging for her to look me in the eyes. I reach across the table and grab her hand. She looks up at me, and the tears begin to flow. I turn to mush as emotions overwhelm me. Recollections of every time my mother stood beside me, lifted me up, guided me, and held my hand flash in an instant. I feel like I'm 10, and faced with losing someone I can't live without - my mother. "I don't want you to die."
Her eyes drop... tears stream... chin quivers... "I know, but I can't keep going - it's going to happen." She straightens up again and I see the resolve in her posture. I understand. I get it. It's not about me. The wish for a miraculous resurrection of memories past is never going to happen, and it's unfair to hold a person captive in those moments.
Letting go is a hard thing to do.
