I may have mentioned once or twice or forty times that I grew up on a farm. It’s very much a part of who I am, not only instilling in me a strong work ethic and a love of gardening and cows, but also helping to develop my repertoire of witty responses to “farmer’s daughter” jokes. But what happened to that farm?
Back in the day, when my dad was ready to do other things, like sleep in ’til 6 AM, he and my uncle sold the property to the town of Glastonbury. The town, in turn, preserved the land. Put a big sign up that read LONGO FARM OPEN SPACE and everything. It’s kind of a park now: people are allowed to walk the trails, as long as they don’t disturb the agriculture (there’s a farm family nearby that rents out the fields for planting).
My parents moved off the homestead while I was living on Block Island. I haven’t been back to the farm in over fifteen years. So when Jason suggested we walk the Longo Farm Open Space, I was game. More than game. I wanted to go home again.
On the ride over, I was filled with apprehension. What would it look like? Would it smell the same—the sweet scent of cow manure and chopped corn tickling my nose? Would the paths I remembered from my childhood still be there? What on earth did they do with the “lagoon”—a cement holding area into which the animal waste was once funneled?
I relaxed when we arrived. Things were different, but not too different, I thought. Then we started walking.
When I was a kid, my father planted Christmas trees out in the back field. I remember the area as bright and bare, full of large boulders and saplings. Forgive me my rudimentary Photoshop skills, but it looked something like this:
Back in the day, when my dad was ready to do other things, like sleep in ’til 6 AM, he and my uncle sold the property to the town of Glastonbury. The town, in turn, preserved the land. Put a big sign up that read LONGO FARM OPEN SPACE and everything. It’s kind of a park now: people are allowed to walk the trails, as long as they don’t disturb the agriculture (there’s a farm family nearby that rents out the fields for planting).
My parents moved off the homestead while I was living on Block Island. I haven’t been back to the farm in over fifteen years. So when Jason suggested we walk the Longo Farm Open Space, I was game. More than game. I wanted to go home again.
On the ride over, I was filled with apprehension. What would it look like? Would it smell the same—the sweet scent of cow manure and chopped corn tickling my nose? Would the paths I remembered from my childhood still be there? What on earth did they do with the “lagoon”—a cement holding area into which the animal waste was once funneled?
I relaxed when we arrived. Things were different, but not too different, I thought. Then we started walking.
When I was a kid, my father planted Christmas trees out in the back field. I remember the area as bright and bare, full of large boulders and saplings. Forgive me my rudimentary Photoshop skills, but it looked something like this:
As we walked up the slope, I stopped. Looked around. Was this the same spot where we’d all piled into the truck to pick out a tree (my sister sick as a dog one year, me holding onto her so we wouldn’t fall out the back, but also worrying guiltily that she’d barf on me, so not holding her too close)?
It looked—well, like this:
It looked—well, like this:
It was disconcerting, to say the least. The farm had stayed the same in my mind. But the trees were taller, the landscape altered; there were fences where none had existed before. The pond where we’d fished as kids (a giant water snake chasing us all the way home once when Kim and I were still in the single digits) was now a lush green valley. What the heck? What had they done to my home? (No, I don’t know who I mean by “they.” The town? God? Irrelevant.)
We trudged on, my shoulders slumping, the tears welling in my eyes. My childhood was gone. I know it happens to everyone. But I thought I’d be miraculously excluded from that rule.
“Hey,” Jason said, elbowing me. “Pretty.” I looked up.
We were at the highest point at the back of the farthest path, looking out over the plowed patches and haying fields toward the home I’d grown up in.
This. I knew this. I scrambled out through the tick-infested grass onto a broad granite rock and snapped a picture.
We trudged on, my shoulders slumping, the tears welling in my eyes. My childhood was gone. I know it happens to everyone. But I thought I’d be miraculously excluded from that rule.
“Hey,” Jason said, elbowing me. “Pretty.” I looked up.
We were at the highest point at the back of the farthest path, looking out over the plowed patches and haying fields toward the home I’d grown up in.
This. I knew this. I scrambled out through the tick-infested grass onto a broad granite rock and snapped a picture.
Beautiful, right? That’s a shot of what I remember. The rocks. The fields. The house. One wily water snake who had to slither down a lot of dirt roads to chase me and Kim all the way home. I pointed out the white birch that still stood alone in the hayfield, much bigger now, and told Jason how my friend Meghan and I had camped underneath it. Walked the path that wound up toward the garage my father had built, pointing out where the cow graveyard had once been. (Maybe still is. I wasn’t about to grab a shovel and find out.) Reminisced about checking the rows of corn with Dad, shining a flashlight between the stalks, looking for raccoons (their eyes reflect red in the beam). Described how my mom and aunt would walk the back loop every day after work, without fail, and not once had stepped on a snake. It was home.
But not any more.
And that’s okay. When we made it back to the car, I was tired, my knee hurt, and I wondered how my mother managed to hike that loop every afternoon without reaching for the Ben Gay every evening. Much like the land I grew up on, I’m getting older. I had a newfound respect for the effort my father must’ve put forth to keep the paths clear, the fields mowed, the acres plowed. A lot. No wonder he was up at 4:30 every morning. Some weekends, I get up at 7 and whine about weeding the garden. I am a spoiled brat.
I’d gone home to visit the farm. But it’s not my home; it’s open space for everyone to enjoy (but watch out for giant water snakes, people). It was nice to visit. Made me wistful, really. But the best part of the hike was that it made me realize some important things. One: nothing stays the same, not ponds, nor birch trees, nor my knees. Two: What made the farm home to me was not the manure or the cow graveyard, but my family, and I still have them. And three: Farming is hard. That’s a lot of land to work and maintain.
I’m glad my dad doesn’t do it anymore, that he’s retired and able to relax with Mom. I’m glad my sister and I, or Jason, or my brother-in-law Tim, or my nephews, aren’t farmers. I don’t miss Christmas mornings when Dad had to do the milking, or corn-chopping season, when Dad didn’t make it home for dinner for weeks. And don’t think Mom wasn’t working—she had a full-time job, plus raising us while Dad was off farming. I don't miss the flies or the mice or the ticks. So it was nice to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there again. I’m pretty happy where we all are now.
But not any more.
And that’s okay. When we made it back to the car, I was tired, my knee hurt, and I wondered how my mother managed to hike that loop every afternoon without reaching for the Ben Gay every evening. Much like the land I grew up on, I’m getting older. I had a newfound respect for the effort my father must’ve put forth to keep the paths clear, the fields mowed, the acres plowed. A lot. No wonder he was up at 4:30 every morning. Some weekends, I get up at 7 and whine about weeding the garden. I am a spoiled brat.
I’d gone home to visit the farm. But it’s not my home; it’s open space for everyone to enjoy (but watch out for giant water snakes, people). It was nice to visit. Made me wistful, really. But the best part of the hike was that it made me realize some important things. One: nothing stays the same, not ponds, nor birch trees, nor my knees. Two: What made the farm home to me was not the manure or the cow graveyard, but my family, and I still have them. And three: Farming is hard. That’s a lot of land to work and maintain.
I’m glad my dad doesn’t do it anymore, that he’s retired and able to relax with Mom. I’m glad my sister and I, or Jason, or my brother-in-law Tim, or my nephews, aren’t farmers. I don’t miss Christmas mornings when Dad had to do the milking, or corn-chopping season, when Dad didn’t make it home for dinner for weeks. And don’t think Mom wasn’t working—she had a full-time job, plus raising us while Dad was off farming. I don't miss the flies or the mice or the ticks. So it was nice to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there again. I’m pretty happy where we all are now.
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