The Visit Bradford Bennett   © Copyright 2024 by Bradford Bennett

Photo by Salah Ait Mokhtar on Unsplash

Here, at this old farm site, is where my childhood was shaped. This view, from the back porch of the farmhouse, was my world then. The old, two-story house and barn to the side, now just marks in the sod where they once stood. But the memories they hold are still there, now vivid in my mind.

This old property extends down to the end of the fencerows, bordered by an abandoned railway line. Beyond that, to the east, the valley stretches out towards the distant mountains that frame this quiet Oregon valley. It feels like a scene from an old storybook, a chapter from my childhood when I lived in this long-forgotten place. Here, my divorced mother had left me to live with my grandmother, both now long gone.

This land had been in my grandmother's family since 1889. From this very spot, she witnessed a world changing, the decline of horse-drawn machinery, the Great Depression, and World War II. Then, after her husband tragically died in a farm accident, she continued to live on raising a fatherless family over the years. Once her children were grown, she managed the property on her own. When she became too old for the hard work, she leased the land to local farmers for annual planting. This old place has seen many lives come and go. Now, I am the last generation, a young boy growing up here then transitioning into manhood. My return is an attempt to revive old memories and bring back the past, even if only for this brief moment in time.

I start walking down the fencerow toward the shaded pond that lies in the far corner of the field. The sweet aroma of honeysuckle and the tart scent of wild blackberries along the fence greet me, instantly transporting me to the many times I've traveled this way. My feelings heighten, drawing me back—mind, body, and senses. Here, my dog Dugan, a water spaniel, always sniffs out the bird trails. If a pheasant suddenly bursts out from the surrounding grass, he freezes and points, but they always manage to escape. I have an old shotgun, but I didn't use it often.

Soon, the tall, swaying reeds along the pond's edge reveal the sparkling water, a welcome sight in the bright sun. However, the biggest attraction is the old apple tree standing by the fencerow. I climb it once again, feeling the rough bark against my palms and the thrill of venturing out on a limb to munch on the tangy wild fruit. From this perch, I can take in the entire scene: the farmhouse sitting atop the hill, the flowing fields of crops, and the shining reflection of clouds in the pond's water. In this moment, I am enjoying all the wonders of my time here during those hot valley summers. Even Dugan, who has just returned from exploring the pond's bird trails, sits up begging for an apple. I throw him one, and he instantly gulps it down.

After enjoying a good feast in the tree, it’s best to head back down and visit the old rail tracks that separate Grandma’s farm from the eastern neighbors. Dugan follows me up to the fence. I lift it up, allowing the big dog to pass through. Along the tracks, he starts sniffing out fresh game trails, always on the lookout for anything that might catch noses attention. My grandmother once told me that during the Great Depression, desperate families would ride these rails, stowed away in empty box cars, toward what they hoped would be a better life, seeking out work on the local farms.

Just then, a whistle sounded from far off—a long, low blast signaling the train was coming fast. I waved for Dugan, and we hurried back through the fence. Then, we stood there, transfixed, as the massive engine drew near. The ground shaking, and the steel tracks rumbled. Then, the roaring, smoke-belching beast roared by. Yes! The engineer, high up in his window, waved to me; I waved back, standing mesmerized by the mighty vision as it roared on, until finally, the last car clattered away.

Now, where's Dugan? Oh, he's run off again, always chasing after another bird trail, but he'll be back soon. It's best to head back now along the fence on the other side of the field. There, I can sample the tangy plums hanging over the fence from the neighboring farmer's orchard. As I walk up, I notice Grandma out on her back porch, far up the hill. She's waving for me to come back; it will soon be time for dinner. I wave back and start walking toward the old white house once more.

As I draw nearer, I can see the farm's long, low, chicken house — this is where the eggs Grandma, and I, gathered every morning. However what I enjoyed most here is the big oak barn. Inside in the loft, among the stacks of hay bales, I stage my imaginary battles, defending against marauding hordes. Yes, all of this has taken place in my young life, set against the backdrop of this little farm.

As I approach the house, I realize I haven't seen Grandma's car. Then it all comes back to me; it’s no longer useful and has been abandoned in the woods. The old hulk is still there, but little remains—just scattered rusty pieces strewn across the ground. I look over at the yard, now just a bare patch of land. I stop and gaze down this hill one last time. At last, this scene from my childhood here feels complete.

As I drive my car back down the hill toward the nearby town. I take one last glance in the mirror, one final magical gaze at this other world from so long ago. Now that moment will last forever, as all memories do when we relive them, even if it’s just for a short stopover in time.