Oh Say, Can You See...

We drive upstate in your car. I assume it’s a nice car. Now that I am over eighty, and I don’t see so well anymore, I give up trying, sometimes. It helps me to picture that it’s quite grand, and that you’re doing well.

You’re so thoughtful. Knowing it’s my birthday soon, and you had vacation saved up, you take your old grandfather to his birth home. It’ll be good to visit one last time.

As we pull into town, you announce the city limits sign. I smile as we grow closer to our destination. I can tell what street we are on with each stoplight, and I can vaguely make out the shapes of the buildings you point out. The original schoolhouse, now a museum you say. The pair of churches, one Catholic, one Baptist, silently fighting over having the best place to worship in town. The Dairy Queen, built when I was halfway through high school. Speaking of which, you point out the new high school, built long after I left town. I can’t see most of it, but I am sure it’s magnificent, as far as schools go.

We have to get through town to get to the other side and to our turnoff. We stop for a bit at Danae’s coffee shop, now called Darla’s, as her daughter has taken over. We enjoy our coffee and chocolate cream pie, and Darla has her husband bring Danae in for a nice chat. It was good to hear a familiar voice from my childhood.

We excuse ourselves after our snack and head out to the old farmhouse. I was born in that house, along with my older sister, Marie, and younger brother, Charles. I am the only one left, now. Technically, I own the house and property, by now, but I hadn’t had the heart to sell it yet. I suppose I should take care of that here shortly. Or maybe you will want it.

We walk the farmhouse and I go upstairs, seeing our rooms we grew up in. Mine is almost how I left it. I see vague shapes and colors in mom and dad’s old room, untouched by anything but the dust I can feel under my fingertips.

We walk down the creaky stairs and out back to the barn. I can see a vague blob of the hole in the roof you mentioned as we draw closer. As we enter, I can feel the difference it makes in the breeze, the extra wind blowing through at new angles. The smell is still here – the dirt, the hay, the wood. I can also smell the mold the water has brought to the wood, now. Guess it’ll have to come down.

I remember the time I was due punishment, and dad took me out of the house into here and took off his belt. I deserved it, and I never stole a candy bar again. That strap sure did sting! Miss ya, dad.

I remember a few years later when we played hide and seek, and I stupidly climbed up top and tried to peek over the edge while Charlie hunted us down. I leaned too far, fell over the edge, and broke my arm. Charlie felt so bad! Never understood why; it was my own fault.

I remember going through high school 4H and raising my sheep, Clara, keeping her in here all throughout. Mom told me that she used her wool to knit that ridiculous sweater I got later for Christmas the year we had to auction her off at the end. I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t believe her, and somehow still doubt that that really happened. But she meant well. Miss you too, mom.

I remember the time I brought Charlotte van der Meyer here after the harvest dance, and … well, I won’t repeat it here. I wonder how she’s doing, these days. I should have kept in touch. I owed her that much.

I hear you pointing out the flaws -- the hole in the roof, the boards missing in one wall, the gaps in that wall, the rusted tools, and yada yada yada. I tune it out while I reminisce. All you see is an old, dilapidated barn, and now I wonder, which of us is the blind one, here?