greenwinter

Fog blanketed the ground. I woke with excitement and bypassed the heavenly wafts of bacon and Ma Mae’s delectable waffles, made with her homemade blueberry syrup and pecans fresh from their farm. My galoshes loudly clomped as I joggled my way out my grandparents’ true front door: the gateway to their backyard. Past the tenderly cared for rose bushes and pecan trees I flew without a care in the world, for I knew the magic I was about to behold. I tore through the puddles and towards the picket fence and aimed left towards the barns.

Just a short distance that seemed an eternity and a simple turn at the large prickly tree, where I made the mistake of jumping barefooted from it the past summer, and I had arrived. I did not stop to fulfill my tradition of lovingly placing my hand in gratitude to the chestnut tree that day, as I was still fresh from the memory of the excruciating pain of landing on its overly protected fruits. There I was, facing the mysterious old barns. Gently, musk began to ascend my nostrils. Its imagined history danced in my mind. Dusty relics and treasures awaited me.

Greenwinter Farms earned its moniker from my paternal grandparents. With their farm’s sprinkling of evergreens, it was a well-suited title. The radiant warmth their farm instilled inside of me was from much more than its year-round beauty; it was deeply rooted in love and the comforting knowledge that everyone was treated as the most special part of their family. Once upon a time, it was a working farm, but it had not been operational since Grandaddy had been crippled when a tractor fell on his leg. The obvious usage of their barns had long disappeared but, oh, the magic they held was transformative.

Even though there were multiple barn structures, my favorites to explore were the ones to the left. The disheveled entry was on the right, nestled against the fence. The settled dust billowed upon entry replicating the morning fog. Differentiated footprints were peppered and overlapping one another on the dirt floors, creating fascinating shapes of visitors past. Sunlight filtered through the rustic openings and cast onto the vintage automobiles and relics of my family’s past. Their stories whispered through the slivers in the weathered wood slats.

Inside these historical treasures, I never felt scared or alone. The warmth of my family echoed deep inside. Even though I had been inside the old barns before, the novelty never wore off. There I was, Indiana Jones in pigtails, ready to face the adventures within their tattered caverns.

During that day’s exploration, I became lost and found once again. Once inside, my fingers gingerly explored the textured walls. Soon I was following my curiosity and moved towards the car in front of me. The car’s surface was worn and rusted. I could not resist scribbling into the dust on the hood and side windows and wonder what life had transpired within. The images appeared as readily as my heated breath, which was suspended from my mouth as an echo encapsulated in time.

There were fragments of stray hay imprinted into the dirt floor and stranded on the loft storage and random nail heads above. I left the car and moved through the next doorway. Despite the replication of the storage in the section before, each area was unique with identical splendor. The old barn was a magical place.

Suddenly, a stampede of children’s feet disrupted my fantasies, and I started to return to reality. At the same time as my past self, I realized I was daydreaming. The abrupt course over the graveled and rough backroads must have awoken my hazed state of mind. The recollections from a childhood well-spent seem as clear as yesterday. I began sharing those memories with my husband and telling him where the barns used to be as we began the approach to my grandparents’ past home. Both had been deceased for a while, but my uncle rented their home to families.

Even though he knew the stories, he attentively listened to me wax-poetic about the old barns and my dear history with my dad’s family. Slowly the maple and pecan tress came into view. Heavenly was the light that glistened through their leaves and shone a halo around their trunks. It was as if my grandmother’s singing began to arise from the surroundings in harmony with my grandfather’s songbird whistling, as we were approaching their tree-adorned driveway. I asked him to slowdown so we could take in the home and adventures I fondly remembered; we were driving past it, as the reunion was at my uncle’s- up the road. I excitedly stretched my neck to see, but what I had remembered was gone. No one realized I was never informed to my grandparents’ land being sold and their home torn down.

Calling to him to press into the brakes, our car halted as I began to comprehend this harsh realization. In a cruel twist, it was similar to the way I learnt the barns were no longer there, many years before. Dilapidated and beyond repair, was how they were described. This was sadly identical how my dad would soon speak of the ghost of a home before me.

As childish as it may seem, I could not understand how something that provided and was given so much love and care could not survive. Reflecting on the similarities these structures share with humans, I wiped my face dry and we drove forward. I resolved to no longer grieve the past, but to relish my memories. Inside me, they stay alive and integral, just as the evergreens do, on their farm during the South Carolina winters.

Today, these magical memories still whisper and sing. I find myself joining them whenever I tend our garden and trees, and pour love into them and our structures, similarly to what we all do, as humans, to the souls that intertwine our lives and pass us by. Cherish them while they are here, and they will be yours forever.