Day of Remembrance

It has been 5 years since I’ve laid eyes on the farm. Inevitably, things change. People change colors when they repaint a house, rip out the landscaping to put in something their own, and so on. There are certain places from my past that I choose not to return to because I know this will be the case with each and every one of them. Why spoil the fond lasting mental image in my head by replacing it with something new and not of my time there? Sometimes photos we take do not find themselves classified as art, but there is nothing wrong with that. Sometimes it is those that document and freeze a moment in time that achieve a value to us that is priceless. For me there are many such photos of the farm.

Fenced In

I’ve photographed both color and B&W exclusively over the years, but it’s the balance of allowing for the option that lends itself to best capturing the image that I opt for.

Sight Unseen

Cranberry sash and a coat of white paint. Roaming somewhere nearby is a rooster and two chickens that broke out of the henhouse. They make their rounds, but never stray from the farm. Litters of farm cats patrol the acreage: fields, the barn, tractor shed, pretty much everywhere. Yet, all of these animals and all of the rest co-exist in harmony with one another. This tranquil tract of land is on my shortlist of places that come as close to utopia as I’ve ever known.

Face from the Past

When it came time for me to learn to drive, my father drove me to Cross-Keys. More specifically, the family farm there. My first lesson would take place on a tractor in the field behind the farmhouse. In those first moments behind the wheel, my senses were hypersensitive. Having no comprehension of how the controls would react to my touch, I made mistakes as I familiarized myself with the machine. Stick shift, clutch, accelerator. Coordinating the interaction of all three seemed very complicated; not to mention, all the while steering and navigating the plowed field’s ruts. Still, through patience and perseverance I succeeded and mastered manual transmission.

Black Magic

His story goes like this. He appeared on my uncle’s farm one day and made himself right at home. Based on a tag found on the goat, Dave figures he was on a truck bound for the slaughterhouse. There’s a lot of traffic on Route 30, which runs in front of the farm not 10 feet from of its white fencing. Seems the goat had a strong sense of self-preservation and leapt from the moving truck, perused the farm and made his way to the enclosed barnyard. Whether he bounded over the fence or squeezed through it -- we may never know, but he had no intention of leaving, not that anyone tried to remove him. He got along well with the horses and donkeys, the dogs and farm cats that resided there over the years, and even the lamas, not to mention the humans. What’s more, he made a good friend…a best friend -- Morticae the horse. They were inseparable. They looked out for each other; and it was funny to see the goat standing under the horse from time to time, whether just to be close to him or seeking protection from the unruly lama Paco. Black Magic went where he liked -- no fence could hold him, but he never strayed from the farm and usually not far from his fellow residents. Adorable, entertaining, and always quick to protect if he felt any of his barnyard companions were potentially in danger. I can still hear his snort and stomp. He did that a lot. Often it was just to get your attention, as if to say, “Hey, I’m here. Hello-o-o!” He was funny and he made me laugh a lot. A few years ago he passed away and it was a sad time. And while everyone missed him (and there was an obvious void left by the absence of his indomitable spirit), the one it hit hardest was Morticae. He seemed lost without his friend. Sadly, a little while back, he, too, passed away. I like to think they are together again in the next life, sharing once more in their antics and camaraderie. I miss you both.