Several weeks ago when I mentioned to a friend that we were auctioning our family farm, she suggested that I take lots of pictures first. I told her that I wasn’t sure I wanted pictures the way it is now, that I’d rather remember it the way it was. When it came down to it, though, we did both. My sisters and I talked about our memories growing up on the farm, all the while taking pictures of the present.
We have different sets of memories, only some of which overlap. My sisters remember the old barn that was gone before I was born, and living in “the little house”, which I remember being my grandparents’ house. None of us grew up in the brick house you see in the picture. Just a few rooms of it were part of the original house.
The most recent renter left the house in pretty sad shape, so it was difficult to walk in and see it as the home our dad built and he and Mother loved. But the lilac bushes, the cellar with my grandfather’s signature in the concrete above the door and the lane to the mailbox and the main road were still familiar.
It all has new ownership now after belonging to Petersons since the early 1900s. And I guess the title was wrong because while the land doesn’t belong to us any longer, the memories are safe and sound, just waiting to be looked at again whenever we want.