Seeing Dad Again

Mom told us at the dinner table “your Dad is going to be visiting you at the farm this weekend”.  I felt a deep ache in my tummy, excitement and afraid… all at the same time. Mom saw how shocked we all were and tried to make it seem alright.

When I saw him he seemed so unfamiliar and so familiar all at the same time. I went to him and hugged him but my brothers wouldn’t go to him. I am not sure if they were frightened or angry, but I was the one who went to my Dad—hugged him, sat on his lap, touched his face, and tried to remember what it felt like to love this stranger who was my father.

Somehow I knew that I could not fully open my heart to him again, not as much as I wanted to. I felt an absence that I cannot really describe. The rest of the visit was a blur but I do remember him talking to us and being very kind and soft. I think we all felt awkward, but in the moment we weren’t able to put words to how we were feeling. The visit with my dad seemed very short. It seemed that it ended before it started and although, he felt distant I hated to say goodbye to him.

I wish I could say that this was when it all changed for us, that my Dad was finally back in our lives to stay and that he came every week to visit us. I wish I could say that we spent vacations with him, that he supported us emotionally and financially.  I wish that I could say that he was our Dad again. But that is not what happened. He went missing again after this one visit and we didn’t see him again for a long time.

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Quite a few years later, Dad would randomly come see us when we were at the farm on the weekends. He didn’t have a car so he would hitchhike.  Sometimes he would come walking up the country road alone and just walk in the door; other times he would come with a girlfriend or some friends. Sometimes he would say he was coming and not show up; other times he would just show up unannounced. He was carefree and not dependable. Even so, I  thought he was so cool.  He had long curly hair and was so handsome. He always had kind things to say to me when he came to visit. He would encourage me with his words and his gentle voice. I remember him asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up… I said “a nurse ” and he said “why not a Doctor” ….. “oh Dad….girls cant be Doctors.”  and he said “oh yes they can and I think you would be a wonderful Doctor”.

I would follow him everywhere and he would hold my hand….. he would talk a lot and tell us funny stories.  Sometimes he would go on and on and on about really boring stuff but I didn’t mind. I needed him.  Then off he would go and we wouldn’t see him again for a long time.

I would miss him deeply and my heart would ache for him. If I stood in just the right spot on my favorite stonewall, I could see very far down the road. I would look for him from that spot, hoping to catch a glimpse of him coming up the road. Sometimes I waited and waited. I would sit on the wall and position myself where I could see the farthest. And I would wait. Sometimes I would squeeze my eyes shut really tight and pray really hard that when I opened them I would see Dad coming up the road. I would be filled with excitement just before opening my eyes, but then as I opened them, the old country road would be just that, with no Dad walking towards me. Sometimes I would just sit there and imagine him coming, imagine him strolling up the road with a smile, just so I could feel that excitement inside again. As time went on, I would not allow myself to look anymore because it hurt too much.

Imagine being loved that much, where someone longs for you so greatly that they dream about your arrival and wait on a stone wall with great anticipation. And they look down an old country road over and over again, waiting and wishing to catch a glimpse of you.  What a fortunate man to have been loved so much.

Mr Lincoln

Grandpa & Grandma come every Friday afternoon and pick us up and take us to the farm for the weekend.

On this Friday afternoon, I am anxiously waiting on the front steps. Bobby is at it again.  He is yelling at Mom and all of us and smoking one filter-less Lucky Strike cigarette after another and another. I hate him.  I cannot remember a time that I do not hate him.

Sometimes, I still find myself drawn to him.  Perhaps I am hoping, longing for attention.  Even if it hurts, at least it is attention.  I will regret it though: his rejection will always hurt worse than I think it will…

“Don’t you have something better to do,” he grumbles.  So I pick up my bag and go outside and wait on the porch, longing to see that big gold Dodge come around the bend and take me from this mill town, back to the farm, back to nature and all that soothes me.

I know that soon they will come and all will be alright.  Grandma and Grandpa will help me make my escape.

When we arrive back at the farm we are all in the kitchen and Grandpa announces that he has a surprise for us.  “M & M’s?” we ask.  “No,” he says with a serious face.  ”You have to guess,” he says.  So we all start guessing.  This goes on for a while.  “Is it bigger than the kitchen table?”  “Is it living?”  “Does it have two legs?”  “Four legs?” “Yes, yes, yes” he says.  “Is it a dog?”  I say with excitement!  “No” he says.  “Is it a horse?”  my brother says.  Grandpa doesn’t answer at first, just smiles.  ”Is it, is it?” we are all asking with pure excitement.  “Well not exactly,” he says.  We are all gazing at him with wide eyes as he says very slowly, “Well, it’s actually a half pony, half horse!”

When he said these words I actually could not even take it in.  “Really really really!!!?”  “Yes,” he says, “I promise!”  I was so beyond thrilled that I fell backward and landed straight on the floor, banging the back of my head really hard.  But it didn’t faze me a bit.  I just jumped up and all of us were jumping and yelling in excitement and disbelief.

Did Grandpa know that I loved horses more than anything?  Did he know I spent hours in my room putting together scrapbooks of cowgirls on their horses, cutting pictures from outdated horse girl magazines that I got at the library for free? I would imagine that it was me on the horse wearing wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat.  There would be articles about caring for horses, brushing them, cleaning their hooves, cleaning their stalls, braiding their manes, barrel racing, and everything to do with horses and horse ranches. I would dream for hours of just riding a horse someday and never allowed myself to dream that I would actually have one.

“Mr. Lincoln” is his name.  He is the most spectacular animal I have ever seen. As I walk towards him it is cold enough to see his breath coming out of his large soft nostrils.   He looks straight at me.  He is reddish brown, his mane is thick and darker than his coat and his body is stout and solid and strong. I cannot believe my eyes and that I am about to touch him.  I have imagined this moment for so long.  I reach out and I touch his nose first.  It is softer than I could have dreamed.

He lets me touch him and I put both hands on his face.  He lowers his head and I rest my face on his.  He is warm and soft and he smells like the earth.  We breathe in and out together; I feel his breath on my chest.  I know in this moment that we are one – Mr. Lincoln and I – and I make a pact with him in that I will love him until the end of time.

I tell Mr Lincoln everything and he listens.  He chomps on grass and wanders around me.  I talk and talk and he often lifts his head and looks at me.  He never goes too far.  I talk and talk.  I talk as I brush him and as I lead him through the pastures.  Sometimes he follows without me holding the rope.  He listens as I talk.

I tell him that I have dreamed of having a horse my whole life and that I love every inch of him.  I tell him about Bobby and how much I hate him.  I tell him about my dad and how much I miss him.  I tell him about my best friends: Patty, Lori, and Cathy.  I tell him about my teacher – how handsome he is and how kind he is to me.  I tell him everything and he listens.  He looks at me with his dark, black eyes and he seems to understand it all.

He knows without me telling him that I love the sky, because he watches me as I lie in the grass and stare at the clouds.  He knows that I love the trees because he watches me climb the branches and try and climb as high as I can.  “Look at me Mr. Lincoln, look how high I am.  I can see for miles.”  He knows how much I love the smell of fresh hay as he watches me hold it in my hands and bury my face in it as I breath in deeply.  He knows that I hate shoes as he sees my bare feet with dirt between my toes.  He knows everything about me and he stays, he stays right there by my side and he loves me, quietly, with all of his beauty and courage and strength.

It was magical learning how to care for Mr. Lincoln.  I loved all of it!  I loved cleaning his hooves and brushing him.  I loved combing out his mane and kissing him on the tip of his nose.  All the while I am talking and talking to him, touching him gently, telling him everything.

I never put the saddle on him.  I love riding him bareback.  I love the way my legs felt, in the warmth and softness of his body as they draped over his big belly.  I would scoot forward as far as I could and I would lie straight back on his back and my head would lie right on his rump.  I would stare up at the sky and the big white fluffy clouds and talk and talk and talk while Mr. Lincoln just meandered about the pasture grazing on grass.  It didn’t seem to bother him that I would just lie up there on his back.

It doesn’t take long for me to find him.  He is always in the upper pasture eating grass. His head jerks a foot when I call out to him and he walks towards me hoping I have an apple for him.  I jump onto his back and off we go.  I lean on his strong neck and wrap my arms around him and rest my head on his mane.  I tell him that I love him more than anything and would never let anyone or anything hurt him.  He listens.

The sight and sounds of him galloping across the pastures:  his mane blowing in the wind, his hooves banging on the earth, his spectacular muscles that form as his hooves lift and fall.  It is the sight of freedom – full freedom – and connection to the earth.

I can depend on Mr. Lincoln.  He is always there for me.  Our connection is deep and when I am back home at 56 Park Street, I dream of him. I dream about the way he smells, his beautiful eyes, the softness of his coat, the sounds of his hooves on the earth and as they walk across the old wood floors in the barn.

No matter what happens at 56 Park Street, when I return to the farm on Friday afternoon, Mr. Lincoln is there waiting for me.  I can count on that.

The Farm

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.  Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.  The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. 

~John Muir

This time when I awaken in the middle of the night, it is to the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves of the gigantic maples trees outside my bedroom window. In this moment, I know that I am safe. As I peacefully drift back to sleep, I am comforted by the thought that in a few hours I will awaken to the sound of my grandparents in the bedroom right below me. I will hear grandpa’s big bare feet walking across the old hardwood floors and I will recognize the distinct sound of his limp: that discernible pause as his right foot takes longer to hit the floor then his left.

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Not long after moving to 56 Park Street, my grandparents; my fathers parents, came back into our lives. This miracle changed our lives for the better for evermore.

Grandma and Grandpa were dairy farmers and they were extremely proud to say so. They loved farming more than anything else in the world. I am not sure which one of them loved it more, but I do know that you could never separate my grandfather from farming. It was where he began and where he ended, and there was no question about that.

I loved Grandpa the moment I set eyes on him. He was a good man and a decent man, the kind of man that one rarely finds these days. He knew what was important. He knew the freedom that comes from having no debt and from not trying to be someone you are not. He stood strong, took pride in a job well done, and he loved us deeply. He had a way of looking at me and talking to me that made me feel like the most important person on earth.  When he hugged me, I felt his warmth and strength surround me.

Grandpa knew how to make the most dull activity or task fun…. and he knew how to do it without spending a dime.  He was a jovial man with his bald head and big belly. He was the best and funniest story teller and he would captivate our attention for hours. Most of the time he was wearing blue jean overalls and they often had big patches on the legs.  In the winter he wore a flannel shirt and in the summer he wore short sleeved, button down, cotton shirt… often washed so many times that the material was very thin and worn..  Grandpa had two pairs of shoes, work boots and church shoes. Both were brown.  When he went outside, he wore a hat.  He looked best in his straw hat, but he also wore a baseball cap…. and for church he wore a dress hat…..it was brown too and it had a small feather in the band. His hands were large and strong and showed the signs of aging and a life of working the farm.  But they were also gentle and kind.  A gold tooth shined in the corner of his smile….I thought it was the shiniest thing I had ever seen. He smelled like a mixture of sweat, hay, grain and the old barn.

Grandpa seemed to love everything about the farm; the open clean air; the way the hay smelled on a hot day just after it had been bundled into bails; the freshly churned butter; the raw milk; the smells and sounds of bacon and eggs sizzling in the cast-iron frying pan on those crisp fall mornings; the scent of the cow barn; the way the brook sounded in spring as the ice melted into it; the way the snow crunched under his feet as he mended fences; and the soft westerly summer breeze that swarmed him on a hot day. But mostly, I believe, it was the freedom of it all: the freedom to wake up each day and do what he chose to do, to walk on his own land and have no desire to be anywhere else but there on his farm. He could stand strong and confident, knowing what he had built there, knowing it like the back of his hand, knowing it throughout his entire body. And never once did he have to doubt who he was.

Grandma was plump and when she hugged me I felt like I was being hugged by a big fluffy cozy cloud.  She had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen.  Her front tooth crossed ever so slightly over her other front tooth in the prettiest way…. And her lips were perfectly full. She was a farm girl through and through. She dressed in simple farm clothes, mostly cotton shirts and cotton shorts in the summer… usually a soft blue or a dark blue… very light wore cotton which she probable bought at the local salvation army.  She was not one to buy anything new and she loved hand me downs… from anyone…. and she often wore a bandanna in her hair, which I loved and in the summer she always wore flip flops. She would wear a straw hat in the garden sometimes and she loved the sun.  After a long morning of working she would get a cold drink and sit out in the sun….. “awe” she would say….”That sun feels so good.”  Her skin was a perfect deep olive color and it would darken up beautifully in the sun.  Her skin was absolutely gorgeous and soft as baby’s hair.  The wrinkled lines around her eyes revealed a life of hard work and dedication, laughter and sorrow.  Her laugh was deep and joyful and she and Grandpa were rarely short on laughter.

Grandma was the best cook I knew….and she spent a good amount of her time in the kitchen preparing food for all of us. She cooked just about everything in her iron frying pans. Breakfast was usually eggs cooked “warwicks” style in the iron frying pan; egg cracked in melted sizzling butter with a piece of homemade whole grain bread placed on top and once the egg was cooked she would flip the bread and egg over so the bread would brown up nice in the butter. There would always be bacon or sausage from the pig they raised on the farm.  In the morning the whole house would smell of sizzling sausage and bacon.  Grandma’s meals were made from everything that had been grown or raised on the farm. Supper was mostly fresh vegetables from the garden such as summer squash, zucchini, green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, corn… these veggies were always served with lots of butter melted on top. Usually homemade corn bread on the side with some pork loin browned in the iron pan with butter.  Always a homemade dessert: blueberry cake or chocolate cake…  A glass pitcher was always on the table full of whole raw milk, fresh from the cow.. and it would be refilled several times throughout the meal.  Food was in abundance on the farm, all cooked in the farm house kitchen….. always delicious!!

There were so many things about “the farm” that made it the best place on earth. But it was Grandpa’s humor, storytelling, appreciation for nature and animals, grandma’s cooking and their deep love for us that made it an experience of a lifetime.

 

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