The Field

Standing, staring off across the overgrown field. I catch my breath and head north to the old house site. Along the fence, posts have fallen in places. Barbed wire, broken, no cattle roam these fields now.

I see the wooden base of an old wagon, memories flood through my mind. Stories long forgotten that Dad told me as a child. His dreams that he had carried with him on the train ride north, praying that his dad wouldn't find him and his older brother. Drag them back to the forsaken homestead. He had plans, a farm, a family, someday when he was grown.

He found the wife when he was 26, the farm three years later. 160 acres with a house, barn and a good well. Just what he dreamed off. He bought the cows, found that blue ribbon bull, Pedro. Won the ribbon at the county fair 3 years in a row.

He loved reading and keeping logs, I still have his last one that he wrote for the farm. Debts and assets in tidy writing, neat rows with jotted notes for upgrades. Talked to the county land agents, terraces placed for the fields that washed away in the rain. His last project had been with a couple of wagons.

Portable chicken houses on wagons. It sparked his interest. Two wagons, chicken wire and framing lumber. He built those houses and bought the chicks. They grew into nice, fat laying hens. Eggs for eating or selling, which ever was needed. He moved the wagons every day or two. Made sure the hens and roosters stayed healthy.

One evening he sent the kids down to shut the chickens in the houses for the night. Evening on the farm, crickets chirped, lighting bugs flashed and danced. Stop along the way, splash in the creek. Hurry up, Mom's calling that supper is ready. Shut the doors and hook the latches. Run back up the hill to the house.

Early the next morning, Mom went down to let the chickens out. One house was perfect, chickens flocking out in the sunlight. Oh, but the next house. All over the floor of the house, chickens, ruffled feathers, blood. In the corner, just at the top of the crossbar, yellow hooded eyes. The old barn owl had been in the house when the door was latched.

Mom and Dad cleaned the house, another batch of chicks. These didn't do as well. Early the next year Pedro went "strange". Dad sent him off to the slaughterhouse. Dad didn't set the houses up for the chickens in the spring. One more year and the farmhouse burnt.

Mom grew tired of living in the country. She was restless. Dad's dreams started slipping away. He finally sold the cows, the land and took the family to Iowa. Worked in factories, tire shops. Fed the kids, kept the wife happy.

Several moves later, a small house in the middle of Missouri again. Less than 30 miles from the farm. Drive to church down in the country every Sunday, back up the gravel road and by the old fields. The three older kids are grown. The youngest, me in the back seat. I wasn't born until they had settled back in Missouri. The stories flood the car, I look at the fields, a place I have never lived. Dad's voice, I hear the joy for a few minutes as he talks. The smell of new plowed dirt, "never let someone tell you it doesn't have a smell." See those terraces, "first in the county. I had those put in." He talks on and on. I smile, this is Dad, my father. His voice strong, happy, excited. Pass the graveyard and church on the right, back to the highway.

Dad's voice solemn, no excitement. Mom's voice perks up as we head into town and the new house. I love her, she is in her element now. Dad isn't and my heart aches for him. He slipped away one day and now is in the graveyard just two miles from the old farm.

The farm is for sale, my husband and I have stopped to look at it and make a decision. I feel his voice, I smell the grass and the flowers that are growing.

We are full circle. Dad's voice, the base of an old wagon and the story of the chickens. The farm, I feel the excitement.