When I was younger and he lived far away, I called it unrequited love. When I grew up and really understood what that meant, I wrote this:
"...never unrequited, but an affection abridged..."
which is really how I feel.
He's been posting photos of our family farm, Sapling Ridge, which was sold to developers in the 90's. Drive through suburban and rural Maryland today and you can see that we weren't the only family to let go.
He posted this beautiful photograph of the farmhouse there.
This house was lucky; the investors fell in love with it and restored and modernized the house, according to Dad. I still dream about this place: maiden voyages to the scary attic and closed-off back bedrooms reveal both horrifying and enchanting mementos of times past. Stacks and stacks of tin toys, frosted mirrors, tattered portraits, termite-ridden floorboards, caverns, canning jars, ribbons, all in a misty haze of nostalgia.
Of course, that's all in my head.
During the year and off months that I lived in this house, I never once remember climbing the staircase to the attic, which was separate from the main staircase, and rose from the back of the dining room, to a large bedroom above it, to the attic. It was built of brick, dark and ominous and it curved around and up. I felt similarly about the cellar, which you could only get down to from outside, and remember looking down the short staircase there and seeing huge spider shells, white, hanging from the beams.
Ribbons though, adorned the huge enclosed 'porch' on the side of the house, as my great-grandmother was skilled at canning, and won many ribbons for her efforts.
There was a trap-door in one of the second floor bedrooms, that opened up over the porch.
I always wanted to ride my sled down the main staircase and out the front door, but didn't. There was a thick, ominous metal cable hanging over the front porch, which I also always imagined myself swinging on. If I had, it probably would have pulled the roof of the porch down, or damaged it. The house, when we lived there, needed a lot of restoration work.
I remember riding bikes with my little brother, down the dirt road through the corn fields behind the house, all the way to the cow pasture (where there were still cows). When we got there, our reward was the sweet nectar from the honeysuckle bushes that grew there.
At the far edges of the horse pastures, on the other side, were a group of huge boulders that Fletch and I would play on. I remember riding on the school bus; when we passed the break in the trees where I could see those boulders, I would get up to get off the bus. Dad was waiting for me at the foot of the driveway. Fletcher hadn't started school yet.
There are lots of other memories. We lost our family dog when we lived there. She was a loving Boxer/Shepard mix, and was hit by a car, chasing a rabbit. My parents swore that a ghost led her there. Ralph, the beagle that my mom and brother would learn to love and hate found us there. He grew and moved with us and died an old dog after Fletch and I had both settled in Philadelphia. It was the only time in my life that I went to church. My grandmother, Betty, who grew up in that farm, would take Fletcher and me to church down the street. I was the star of Bethlehem and played with other children there. My love for miniatures and thrift stores are attributed to the time I spent with her.
There was a fire at the elementary school I attended, and we were shuttled to another school for a while. I punched a boy in the stomach on the playground once. I think I remember riding Dad's motorcycle with him around the farm. Pumping water from the well next to the horse barn. Mosquito, the pony, would follow mom into the grain house. Feeding chickens. Jenny, the shy horse, would only come up to Dad.
Playing Monopoly in the kitchen with an ancient board and wooden houses, holding down the money while gusty winds blew through the screen door. We, of course, played Monopoly during stormy nights.
Of course, I was only 6. I could have dreamed it all.
The Sapling Ridge farmhouse prompted a series of etchings that became the flagship of my thesis while at Moore. This print was the first of twelve etchings.
He's been posting photos of our family farm, Sapling Ridge, which was sold to developers in the 90's. Drive through suburban and rural Maryland today and you can see that we weren't the only family to let go.
He posted this beautiful photograph of the farmhouse there.
This house was lucky; the investors fell in love with it and restored and modernized the house, according to Dad. I still dream about this place: maiden voyages to the scary attic and closed-off back bedrooms reveal both horrifying and enchanting mementos of times past. Stacks and stacks of tin toys, frosted mirrors, tattered portraits, termite-ridden floorboards, caverns, canning jars, ribbons, all in a misty haze of nostalgia.Of course, that's all in my head.
During the year and off months that I lived in this house, I never once remember climbing the staircase to the attic, which was separate from the main staircase, and rose from the back of the dining room, to a large bedroom above it, to the attic. It was built of brick, dark and ominous and it curved around and up. I felt similarly about the cellar, which you could only get down to from outside, and remember looking down the short staircase there and seeing huge spider shells, white, hanging from the beams.
Ribbons though, adorned the huge enclosed 'porch' on the side of the house, as my great-grandmother was skilled at canning, and won many ribbons for her efforts.
There was a trap-door in one of the second floor bedrooms, that opened up over the porch.
I always wanted to ride my sled down the main staircase and out the front door, but didn't. There was a thick, ominous metal cable hanging over the front porch, which I also always imagined myself swinging on. If I had, it probably would have pulled the roof of the porch down, or damaged it. The house, when we lived there, needed a lot of restoration work.
I remember riding bikes with my little brother, down the dirt road through the corn fields behind the house, all the way to the cow pasture (where there were still cows). When we got there, our reward was the sweet nectar from the honeysuckle bushes that grew there.
At the far edges of the horse pastures, on the other side, were a group of huge boulders that Fletch and I would play on. I remember riding on the school bus; when we passed the break in the trees where I could see those boulders, I would get up to get off the bus. Dad was waiting for me at the foot of the driveway. Fletcher hadn't started school yet.
There are lots of other memories. We lost our family dog when we lived there. She was a loving Boxer/Shepard mix, and was hit by a car, chasing a rabbit. My parents swore that a ghost led her there. Ralph, the beagle that my mom and brother would learn to love and hate found us there. He grew and moved with us and died an old dog after Fletch and I had both settled in Philadelphia. It was the only time in my life that I went to church. My grandmother, Betty, who grew up in that farm, would take Fletcher and me to church down the street. I was the star of Bethlehem and played with other children there. My love for miniatures and thrift stores are attributed to the time I spent with her.
There was a fire at the elementary school I attended, and we were shuttled to another school for a while. I punched a boy in the stomach on the playground once. I think I remember riding Dad's motorcycle with him around the farm. Pumping water from the well next to the horse barn. Mosquito, the pony, would follow mom into the grain house. Feeding chickens. Jenny, the shy horse, would only come up to Dad.
Playing Monopoly in the kitchen with an ancient board and wooden houses, holding down the money while gusty winds blew through the screen door. We, of course, played Monopoly during stormy nights.
Of course, I was only 6. I could have dreamed it all.
The Sapling Ridge farmhouse prompted a series of etchings that became the flagship of my thesis while at Moore. This print was the first of twelve etchings.
No comments:
Post a Comment