The Farm

It's hard to separate my memories from the photographs I've seen over the years, but I've come to think that a memory is a memory, and why I remember it really doesn't matter. The memory is there, so it is.

The farm was dusty. Everything--no matter how many times dusted--had what seemed to be a high-definition coating of dirt. Slightly obsessive compulsive and severely allergic to everything, I honed in on those granules of dust and gave them a-talkin'-to: "Not today pollen. Not today ragweed. Just leave me alone today." I was convinced that this stern conversation worked, and until I was about 10 years old I honestly thought the dust could hear me, but refused to listen. I loved going to the farm, but the allergies so often ruined it for me.

My most vivid memories, one of which no pictures exist, take place near the pond. I thought of the pond as a hideaway. Everything was so green and so mystical. During the day white fluff floated in the air only near the pond; at nighttime the glow bugs sponsored a light show far superior those I would later pay to see at the University of Louisville Planetarium in my teenage years. It was a place of magic, and when I talked to the cattails, unlike the dust, they'd talk back.

I learned about things on the farm. I learned that, like my uncles, horses farted--a lot. I learned about being born when I found frog eggs on the bottom of a rock by the pond and again when Jimmy the horse gave birth in front of me. I never learned why they named her Jimmy, though. I can safely attribute this to one of my farting uncles. But most importantly, I learned about death on that farm--a lesson I'm still learning. (Who isn't?)