I feel a little claustrophobic.
I don’t know what might be stalking me out there.
I hear sirens, and I can’t see what they’re attached to or where they’re going.
There’s a sense of insecurity in the not knowing.
I only feel this way when the corn towers. (And it’s closer than it looks.)
And yet, there’s a sense of privacy, a hemming in, safety.
Last year, the land grew wheat and the year before that, soybeans.
Then I could see.
After the harvest, I’ll see again. Down the road and across.
To the old Five Corners Church. My husband’s grandfather gave them a 99-year lease on the land for the church. The same church where my husband intentionally dropped his friend’s toy tractor down the basement drain when they were about four years old.
Later the congregation built a new place on the other side of the road. And for awhile, my sister-in-law stored antiques for sale in the old building.
Different people have lived in that church over the years. But it still looks like a church.
I like looking at it. But I can’t see it right now.
It sits just down the drive from the big house. The one that had the fire last year. (Oh, my word–exactly a year ago today!) Nobody lives there now. I wanted to get inside and look around before it’s gone forever. My husband tracked down the current owner to get permission, but the people who farm that land said we would not want to go in there. I guess it’s quite a mess as a result of different renters over the years since Dennis’ parents sold it.
I do remember a story my mother-in-law once told of hearing the toilet flush several times while she was there. She asked what was going on, and the woman said not to worry, it was just her daughter washing her hair.
Or maybe that happened in the little house. That apparently used to be a grainery down the road and was moved closer to serve as living quarters.
Lots of history. Not mine. Though I like to claim it. I’ve heard the stories so many times, I feel like they belong to me as well.
Dennis’ dad was still farming when we first met, and I do remember hanging out in the milk house.
Anyway, the bell right outside our window came from the top of the big house. An always tangible memory. Ready to be rung.
Some memories are rusty, hidden, but visible again in season.
Some, it seem, might be better forgotten altogether, though they are still part of our life fabric.
And others sit right at the surface, still able to be touched, experienced. Still able to sing.
I like the music in my view.
I find security in that.
I think I’ll wash the window. And then I’ll ring the bell.
Linking up today with Cassandra Frear’s window view over at the Moonboat Cafe.