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THE HOME PLACE
In the southeast corner of Lincoln County lies a small kingdom; a 600-acre parcel of land that encapsulates the heart of a young girl. The princess of this domicile, she knows these hills and valleys intimately, each trail worn into the dusty earth by the hooves of countless generations of cattle over many years.
Into the heart of her kingdom she rides on her fine Quarterhorse mare, seeking both peace and adventure, rarely failing to capture each. Rolling hills embrace a green, verdant meadow through which Crab Creek flows, providing sustenance to land and creature alike. A trail winds upward to the summit of a sagebrush-covered hill, picking its way through the scab rock that litters the earth’s surface as if pebbles flung by a giant hand in a fit of pique.
Nestled into a corner of the property lies an abandoned homestead, the remaining corral and cattle chute broken and decrepit with the disrepair of decades. Who were these people who had settled so many years ago in this lonely spot, and what became of them? When and why did they move on? The landscape and climate tell a portion of the story; arid in summer and bitterly cold with driving, swirling snow in winter, only the hardy survived while eeking out a living in this place. Silence rings loudly through the air, broken by the whirr of crickets and occasional cry of a hawk, circling high above. Its inhabitants gone these many years, the homestead silently whispers, providing sole testament to the very fact of its occupants’ existence, and the dreams they left behind.
Six hundred acres, a fine spread of land on which the better part of a day could be spent riding horseback, traveling one end to the other. Life abounds, wild game and domestic cattle grazing under the warmth of the sun. Burrowing creatures scurry industriously, collecting food and enjoying that same sun, unmindful of the hazard that their subterranean lodgings present the unsuspecting and fragile legs of a saddle horse.
There! A band of six whitetail deer raise their heads as one, stand frozen in an instant of indecision, then as if by unspoken agreement, wheel and ascend the hillside in a graceful arc of motion. The barbed wire fence poses no deterrent to their flight; they soar as winged creatures might, as effortlessly as thistledown in the wind. Except for the fading sound of hoofbeats, this rare and beautiful sight may have existed only in the imagination of the girl and her mount.
There are several impressive basalt formations scattered through these untamed hills, massive bodies of rock growing from the earth and jutting proudly toward the sky. In her mind’s eye, the girl can see a tribe of Indians sitting erect and proudly on their ponies, headdresses of bright feathers adorning their dark braids. She sees them turn in formation, riding single-file in bareback confidence, making their way to the creek to water their horses before setting out once more to attend to whatever tasks await them.
Making her way across the valley, bypassing the masonry bridge and fording the creek on horseback, the girl watches in amusement as the frogs and turtles sunning themselves on rocks at the water’s edge hurriedly relinquish their strongholds, disappearing into the water with tiny splashes. Water skippers skim the surface and an occasional crayfish emerges from the water to flounder about in the mud. There had been hot summer afternoons spent sloshing in the slow-flowing water, jeans and cowboy boots shucked off and left absently atop the creek bank as she reveled in the guilty pleasure of skinny-dipping. And, oh, how quickly she’d scaled that creek bank and struggled into the uncooperative garments, wet-skinned and frantic as the pickup truck carrying her uncle and cousin unexpectedly bounced across the meadow one sultry afternoon.
Eying the hills on the opposite side of the valley, she urges the mare through the waist-high alfalfa grass, patiently allowing the mare to snatch a mouthful of grass here and there. Reaching the hills, she rides to a small copse of trees; chokecherry trees bearing small red berries. There were necklaces at home, made from the bounty of these berries, strung together with needle and thread and dried, presented to her mother and grandmother as gifts. Years later, she would find the quaint little necklace in her mother’s jewelry collection and be humbled at the love shown in that small gesture.
Yes, there was a time that a person could ride for an entire day, unimpeded by fence or other human encumbrance, could ride amid the herd of cattle, enjoying the antics of small white-faced calves as they cavorted under the watchful eyes of their mothers. And after a day in the saddle, could look down from the hills to the great white house nestled behind a small fresh-water pond. There were two large red barns, a chicken-house in the same red paint and trimmed in white, and pens with outbuildings that had housed hogs in earlier years. There were rabbits living in the row of hutches against the chicken-house wall; friendly, cuddly rabbits with wiggly noses, velvet-soft ears, white fur and brilliant pink eyes.
The house itself is a three-story legend bespeaking the elegance and craftsmanship of an earlier time. Built in 1927, the story of the construction of this beautiful home became known for miles around and people from fair distances would come in their buggies to witness for themselves the progress of the builders. With an old-world eye to detail and a master craftsman’s pride, the house is a quiet sanctuary of elegance, while never losing the very essence of a home. Hand-carved moldings adorn the walls and high, arched ceilings rise gracefully above walls of large windows hung with heavy damask draperies and fine lace curtains. Boasting seven bedrooms and two kitchens, with a full basement, the house had been built to accommodate a large family, and had served its purpose well. The girl lived in this beautiful old home with her mother and grandmother, and never failed to note the wide eyes and awe-filled manner in which friends seeing her home for the first time responded upon entering its doors. But it was just home, after all, and something that one not only takes for granted, but expects to forever remain a safe harbor.
Adorning the yard, almost as if jewels surrounding a larger stone, were a profusion of flowers in the summer months, coaxed forth by the skilled hand of a mother, and fringing the borders of the lawn in a riot of color. There was a large and plentiful garden each summer, providing everything from potatoes, carrots and cantaloupe to lush raspberries hanging on laden vines.
Just above and beyond the garden was the pond, a perfect circle of fresh spring water with a population of fish who lived under the dock and refused the hook each time the girl cast her line. But Grandma had the touch; oh, yes. Sitting patiently upon her three-legged fishing stool, kerchief draping the coronet of braids crowning her silver head, Grandma could coax the elusive fish from their lair. And did, time and again, until age and infirmity took their toll on her unsteady legs and ended those lazy afternoons of fishing forever.
Across the yard is an old country school house, standing silently on its rock foundation. Built in 1923, the school house had serviced the children of the great white house, and others, until the 1950s when the local school district had come into existence and offered busing to their outlying students. One could walk through this old building, stand where rows of desks had once filled the rooms, and draw with ancient, crumbling chalk on the blackboards still hanging on discolored walls. The teachers, intrepid young ladies willing to leave the comforts of family and home, had the challenging task of stimulating active minds from kindergarten through high school, all in close quarters and with limited curriculum and supplies. These ladies had boarded with the family in the great house, ate their meals at the table with their students and were a close extension of the family itself; a comfort for these young women removed from their own families for months on end.
The days of childhood pass, one slipping into the next, until calendars are filled and discarded, one after another. But the land lies unchanged; it is the one constant in the life of a tomboy who has matured into a young lady. The horses have changed over the years as well, but the trails and routes they carry their mistress over are the same. Perhaps the outings have become less frequent and for shorter amounts of time, for life as a teenager is demanding and stressful. And when the demands become too consuming, escape awaits in the form of a saddle thrown onto the back of a palomino mare, or perhaps a bay gelding this time. And the release found in these outings is a gift she bestows upon herself, always believing she’ll have this opportunity.
How life’s path leads from our doorway to unexplored horizons; and not just for young ladies, but for their mothers and, finally, for grandmothers, too. A grandmother passes away after a long and productive life. A mother remarries after years of widowhood, and moves with her new husband to a neighboring farm, and the young princess has found her own prince, and is preparing her own castle in the city, miles away. The land lies in wait, livestock and horses sold, house devoid of possessions and garden lying fallow this spring. There are family members who live in the great house for some time, finally returning to their own home, as they eventually must. Then, the solution is found; a cousin and her husband and family will take over the home place, will run their own cattle and live in the great house so that it will not deteriorate, as empty houses do.
But there are new farming practices these days, and many changes are in the wind; rotational grazing, requiring fence lines to separate grazing areas and maintain the herd in a designated area. Like seams running down a patchwork quilt, the open spaces of the heretofore untamed hills are whittled down into sections, secured with barbed wire and large metal gates. Changes are afoot in the meadow, as well. A marshy area where one could always enjoy the serene beauty of mallard ducks and Canada geese is backfilled, tilled under and planted; another natural wetland habitat lost forever.
And in the great house, changes are taking place as well. A wall is removed here, a bathroom added there, and the house takes on the personality of its owners. Once a showplace of quiet elegance and style, its glory has been reduced to a quiet acceptance of the downstairs “living” area filled with clutter and the occasional dust bunny. If a house could speak, it would wonder aloud at the indignities visited upon its hapless being, and remember with longing the days, years, even decades, when its potential was appreciated and realized. The garden lies empty and the beautiful grounds have died a lingering death; the once beautiful landscaping has eroded with neglect and dandelions grace the scrub grass where the lush green of a lovingly tended yard once thrived.
The barns still stand side by side, old boards crying for paint. The outbuildings are gone, as is the chicken house, although the rabbit hutches stand forlorn, broken down and rotting as the years move along. The school house still stands sentinel, a relic from a simpler time; now serving as a storage building, filled to the eaves with junk and vermin.
In the mists of memory, a young girl surveys her kingdom. As dawn breaks over the hills, she takes stock of her kingdom, more precious now than ever before, and her heart is awash with nostalgia. There is a quiet sorrow in the knowledge that the innocence of her childhood kingdom is gone forever, lost in the sands of time and lamented by few.
I turn my eyes toward the sky in search of the mourning dove, whose plaintive cry echoes my own.
This article appeared in the September 2002 issue of Grit Magazine.
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