At the Farm

I open the creaky screen door to the small back porch and the warm breeze grazes my face like an angel wing. I look out as far as I can see and watch the maze dancing to the wind, its tall limbs swishing and reaching for the blue sky. The clouds are sparse and move slower than expected. I step off the porch and make my way through the chainlink gate. I am free now. 

Behind me is the old house where everyone is talking or cooking. The men in the parlor full of aged, vinyl rockers and tattered phone books stacked up like a small table. The dust lays thick on the bookcase that holds many family photos and statues of religious saints. A picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus or Mary the Mother of God, in her blue cloak. They talk about politics and farming. My grandfather hands me a dollar and asks how I am doing. The women are in the kitchen. My grandma has already made her sweet, lemony iced tea and her stew is cooking on the stove. They chatter and gossip a little, enjoying their time of being together. 

I run out back because I am bored and I want to find some wildflowers to pick for our supper table. None of my cousins showed up today; only my aunts and uncles, whose kids are all grown and do not come with them anymore. I can only play with the dirty farm dogs so long and I need air in my lungs that isn’t musty or old. 

This place will be taken for granted by me since that is who I am at this age. Someone who does not appreciate the fact that my grandparents live on a farm, in southern Texas, with a bountiful garden, cattle and chickens and space all around. I yearn to head back to the suburbs where I have my own room and can talk on the phone to my friends. Where I can put a frozen pizza in the microwave and eat it while I watch t.v.

However, I do enjoy it and try to make the best of the situation while I am there. I get lost in the maze and make my way past the field of it, only to see the hill where the Indian paintbrush, bluebonnets and other flowers cover the land like a beautiful, multi-colored blanket. I breathe them all in without realizing and wish I could pick everyone single one to take home.

In this moment all is quiet except maybe some birds flying overhead or a chicken clucking from afar. The long grass sways in the breeze and I sit down and close my eyes. For a few minutes it is only me in the world. All the air is mine to breathe. Everyone else is gone. I hear or see no other humans and though I feel a little lonely, I realize how calm I become. 

After a while, I rise and pick my favorites of the hundreds of flowers within my sight. I create a bouquet of blue and red, yellow and pink. I grasp them tightly in my hand as I walk back to the green, wooden house. In the kitchen I find a mason jar and fill it with water and am proud of the centerpiece I have created. I smell the pie my grandma just baked and wish we had already had lunch so I could eat dessert.

My grandma is so cute in her wig and apron. Her legs are bowed from years of work and genetics. Her laugh after a small glass of beer is cuter and contagious. I take her for granted too. I know she loves me but she is old and usually pretty quiet. She is a bit of an enigma to me and I wonder about her because I do not really know her. She is of Czech heritage, comes from a big family and is my mother’s mother. I love her from afar. It is all I know how to do.

I go to see my dad in the parlor and sit on his knee for a minute while the men are mid-conversation. My uncles ask how school is going, I answer politely and listen to them for a little while. I know even less about my Grandpa. Also of Czech heritage. His skin is like leather and he has worked harder than anyone I know. He keeps secrets inside him and holds past hurts I cannot know. To me he is just my mother’s father. Someone to respect and only see when we make these trips.

When it’s time to leave I am ready. I open and close the gate for my dad to drive through and we make our way over the dirt road and back to the highway. I doze off in the back seat on the way home and lightly dream of the field, full of flowers and fresh air. When we get home I secretly yearn for that space and the comfort of that house. It’s not as foreign as I think. I have been going their my entire childhood. I taste the tender beef stew and warm pie again… We have returned to our busy city life, yet I long for that quiet repose and for the simplicity of the life my grandparents know.

The farm doesn’t belong to our family anymore. It is now a part of our history and I truly miss it at times. Life is funny like that, we tend not to realize what we have until it is gone. It’s so cliche, but true.

Looking back on those times I realize how thankful I am to my parents for taking me there and making that place a part of my memories and childhood. I was able to experience both the farm and the city. That farm was my mother’s home and even though it wasn’t always my favorite place to be then, I think it would be one of them now. I am forever grateful for the time I spent on the Hajek farm, just outside of Shiner, Texas with my grandparents, Lillie and Tom (and my aunts, uncles and cousins).

What I wouldn’t give to lay down in that grass again and smell those beautiful flowers on a warm, spring day and later on, eat one of my Grandma’s amazing kolaches…