The Farm Mystique [Bryan]

For decades, my grandparents worked a dairy farm in Pleasant Grove, Utah. Uninspired by the toil of milking cows, my father fled farm life for a doctoral degree as quickly as he could. We visited the farm often, though, and those visits now form a kaleidoscope of powerful memories. The farm was a wonderland of poignant experiences. Different sights. Smells. Adventures. Friendships.

Although my cousins who grew up on the farm might laugh at this, it was a magical place for me: climbing the haystack, chasing the chickens, watching the milking, riding the tractors, petting the new calf, playing in the irrigation ditch, and so forth. There was nothing like this in the suburbs.

It was a place brimming with history. It was a history not of far-away lands or famous generals, but of my own family and my own people. This was our soil. Watered for generations with our sweat, blood, and tears. This was my soil. As a boy, I would venture into the old storage shed by the chicken coop and peer at the dusty tools and mysterious machinery. I would enter the "old house" (the house my great grandparents had once lived) and stare in wonder at a household frozen in time. The house, although falling apart, was still filled with the tired and worn-out belongings -- the old clothes, plates, furniture, pictures -- of family members that I had never personally known or loved, but who made me what I am. There was a thoughtful silence in that house. I could picture my dad as a young boy coming in for cookies at the end of milking. Great grandma would be standing at the window. The summer would be hot and dusty. There would be an embrace. A few words. The boy would then run off. Time for ball in the pasture.

When I was a boy, we would visit my grandparents own small house. It was always a bustling place. It would burst at the seams with kids, laughter, and love. I miss that place. I especially miss it during the holidays.

I remember past Thanksgivings at the farm. We would pull up in the driveway. The air would be crisp, with a dusting of freshly fallen snow. The dogs would come out to greet us. We would go inside. "Hi there, Bryan, what is going on with you?" Chatter. The kind of friendly banter you find only among people who know each other well.

Smell: the aroma of turkey and fresh rolls hovering in the air. Listen: the sound of the football game playing in the background (The Lions are losing again). Walk: there isn't a corner of the house that is unfilled with a cousin, aunt, or uncle. Laugh: We cousins sit together -- usually at the kid's table in the kitchen -- and crack jokes. Run: We go outside and play something, anything.

Will my children have such experiences? Do they know what it is to drink milk straight from the cow? To suck the marrow out of life? To run free for hours in a world of magic? Will they ever be haunted with such powerful memories?