Posted by Sara Brown on
Back in April 2012, close to the time of my uncle’s funeral, we went to a friend’s farm that was being bought out by a big housing developer.
Despite what the above sign says, our friends parents (owners of this farm) were allowing people to come and take whatever they wanted. Wood from barns that were built in the 1920’s, old doors with locks that required skeleton keys to unlock, dishware from the 1950’s, old typewriter’s, old window’s with chipped paint.
This land was so rich in history (it had been in our friend’s family for over 100 years) and culture, that it was almost unbelievable that it would all be destroyed and be divided up into subdivisions and have new houses be built on it.
I understand the natural order of things, but I couldn’t get it out of my head that we don’t seem to have this sense of home anymore. At least I don’t. Everything felt so peaceful, so rich, so energizing, inspiring, and alive on this land. We spent a good 5 hours on this farm and I didn’t want to leave. I felt it had a story to share, and that that story was only going to be destroyed in a few short weeks. Again, an end of an era.
It made me feel as if I needed to find a place like this for my life. To build my story on. Moving approximately every 3 years of my life has left me with a sense that every place I live is temporary. And I guess everything is temporary.
This farm had so many stories I wish I could have heard over a campfire, and I’m sure there were photographs of this farm over the years that I’d love to see and pass around a kitchen table while drinking coffee
Either way, new homes are being built on this land, and there will be new stories that can be made and told.
My Mom and Aunt, and friend Liz, were able to join us out there, and I’m glad they could be there to walk around that farm with us and take in all that was there.
- Sara <3
p.s. Here’s a link to a TED video about restoring old photos that were more or less wrecked by the Tsunami in Japan: