The Farmhouse Web

This was my last summer coming to the family farmhouse, not only because I would be going away to college this fall, but also because the family dynamic has changed. The family first changed about seven years ago when my grandfather died. I was ten when he passed and I could still feel his stern energy when I think of him. A room full of kids ranging in ages from two to ten went silent when he walked in; we were on our best behavior in his presence. He spent his days mostly in the barn tending to the chicken, cattle, and goats. We saw him for breakfast, dinner, and when needed for fixing, both the house and us children. He was a hard worker who lived by routine. As he got older, he held onto his sternness, but became less mobile as the summers passed. He spent his days more in front of the TV than working in the barn and his discipline went from hands on to nagging from the recliner. The summer I turned nine, he was no longer at the farmhouse. I heard he was in a place where he was well taken care of. Then the summer I turned 10 was his funeral. I did not attend any service or see his body, but there was a gathering at the farmhouse in celebration of his life.

Every summer the day after school finished we made our drive to the farmhouse and came back the day before school started. I did not mind because I had friends in both places, enjoyed being in nature, swimming in the lake, and sleeping in a tent outside. Those seven years after Grandpa died, the barn became untouched and the animals were sold. My grandmother seemed happier and more lively. She played music and had friends over, things I have never seen her do when my grandfather was alive. On my 14th birthday, she bought me driving lessons and in my card she wrote,

I didn’t understand the magnitude of her words at the time, but they resonated with me enough where they made a difference later in my life. On my 16th birthday, she gifted me a book about powerful women and career choices. It was about being a bold, confident woman in all the choices you make, especially your career. Don’t go for what’s expected or chosen for you, but be fearless enough to push boundaries and follow your dreams. She was preparing me for college and expected me to go away to a big city. Such a grandiose idea for a small town, farm girl like myself, but it was one I entertained. Can I go away to a place like New York City or Los Angeles and actually thrive? What would I eat?

The summer of my 16th birthday was one of the most memorable times at the farmhouse. I had my junior license and would drive my Grandma around wherever she needed to be. The day was full of hair and nail appointments, shopping, shows, drives to the beach and those days we would come back late. The next day was always R&R with the mornings starting off with fresh dandelion tea “to compliment the Vitamin D” as Grandma would say. My grandmother was not bougie or stuck up, but the complete opposite. She was kind, thoughtful, and old school. She expected etiquette, chivalry, and respect as the elder. She metamorphosed into the next phase of her life after my grandfather’s passing, one that she waited so long for and very much deserved. She always took care of business and had fun while doing it. She made it her business to tell me how important this upcoming year will be and to not be distracted with nonsense. Nonsense being anything that would deter me from college and success.

Coincidentally, that school year I discovered my passion for architecture. I researched universities and colleges that would amplify this passion and brought back applications that next summer to the farmhouse. Grandma and I filled them out and had them ready to submit in the fall. I only spent a month with her the summer of my 17th birthday as she vacationed the rest of it touring the Four Corners Monument, the Grand Canyon, Aspen, and Las Vegas. A dream of hers she finally made come true, but sadly this would be my last encounter with her. She would not return from her trip as a fatal helicopter accident took the lives of all the passengers, one being my grandmother.

My last year of High School, I did what Grandma would have wanted me to do: have fun. Applications were submitted and the feeling was bittersweet. I thought Grandma would be around to help read my acceptance letter to a big city university, like the one I received from New York University and proudly accepted, but instead the summer would be spent quietly cleaning out the farmhouse and old barn while simultaneously preparing for my leave. Grandma’s Last Will and Testament was short and had specific instructions such as not selling the farmhouse, allowing to redecorate and rent, but before that she specified that I, and only I, was responsible for cleaning out Grandpa’s old barn. She stated she used it as storage and wanted me to decide what to do with the contents and whether to share them with anyone. It has been almost eight years since I saw anyone go into that barn. I assumed it was empty and now I was curious on what I would find.

The barn is dilapidated and smells of mildew. The door is being held up by rope and string so when I attempt to open it, it falls off. I pull the lightbulb string hoping for light, but instead get a face full of dust and mites. The natural light is good for now so I will worry about darkness when night falls. I stand there and look around to assess the job in front of me. The barn is moderate in size and thankfully not completely full; out of the eight stables and one chicken coop, only three stables were full of boxes and the coop had two desks filled with random books, photo albums, papers, outdated technology, and other knick knacks. By the time night fell, the barn was filled with open boxes, four lanterns, and I had learned a lot of my grandparent’s history. I found a lot of baby memorabilia, my grandmother’s diaries, their marriage license, letters to my grandfather, unfiled divorce papers, compromising photos of my grandfather that suggested infidelity, and cassette tapes.

My grandparents married young and it was arranged; my grandmother was 16 and my grandfather 22. My grandfather passed away at the age of 80 and my grandmother at the age of 81. It took her some time to adjust to her married life, but eventually she conceded to the routine. My grandfather was very handy and built the farmhouse and barn with his father and brother from the ground up while my grandmother waited living with her parents. Once they moved in they never left. They had three children including my mother, but my mother was the only one who stayed close and in contact. My grandfather was not abusive in any way, just antisocial, unapproachable, and quiet; everything that was done was done because it was role expected, I rarely witnessed enthusiasm and spontaneity. My grandmother was unhappy because of the obvious - being forced into marriage and robbed of her independence and freedom. That is a grudge she seemed to never let go of and hid that secret very well, in front of me at least. She caught my grandfather cheating with a friend of a friend when he used to go into town to sell the milk, eggs, and cheese he produced on the farm. There was a bastard pregnancy scare with the mistress and the end result eliminated the possibility of my grandfather being the father, but there was no eliminating the damage done to their marriage. I assume my grandmother never executed the divorce because of the stigma behind it and decided living out the marriage was best.

I created a bonfire where I burned all the evidence of the infidelity, the diaries written in vain, and any other bleak materials. I would not speak of that to anyone because I finally understood all of Grandma’s lessons. There was no need to taint any one’s memories or tarnish reputations with this information and if they already knew, they already dealt with their feelings, no need to stir anything up. I kept photographs, one of grandmother’s diaries, a typewriter, some quills, and other stationery. I put aside a box of the cassette tapes and would give that to my mother to do with as she pleased. I chose not to keep much because the photographs and my Grandma’s lessons were fulfilling enough for me. Despite her incongruous attitude towards the marriage, she decided to teach me everything she wished she had become. That alone spoke of my Grandma’s strength and character.

I had intentions of closing the barn door behind me and never looking back, but when I realized there wasn’t a door anymore, I decided to demolish it instead. The land space will be more beneficial than a worn down, infested barn. I smashed doors, burned wood, and knocked down the frame, which was the easiest part of the whole process. Destroying and erasing the barn’s existence provided me with closure to move forward, closure I did not realize I needed. I felt I did what my Grandmother always wanted to do and that felt good. By day 6 of my barn experience, as I am burning the last of the old barn wood, I gaze at the spot where the barn used to stand and think to myself how grimy that piece of land looks. Tomorrow I will clean and knead the dirt in hopes of fresh grass growing or maybe in preparation to plant some seeds.

Sunrise is beautiful and tantalizing. My eagerness to knead the dirt is high so I begin almost right away. The sun is bright, the wind is right and the chirps and howls of the morning wildlife dance along with me and my hoe. As I am digging and kneading, my hoe begins to fumble on some rock and debris. I get down on my knees and with my gloved hands I begin to feel around to pull out the hindrances. I grab a couple of dirt covered objects, all ranging in different sizes and before I clean them off, I decide to keep digging. Half an hour probably passes before I stop digging around and realize I have a fair amount of items to clean off. The first item I brush off is a piece of paper because it’s the cleanest one and it’s something that belongs to Grandpa. I keep going and as I clean off more hardened, smooth rock like objects, I grasp what they are.

Are these bones? … human bones? … Is this, is this a body?

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