The Old Horse Farm

There’s a place where we go together, in which the land backs up to our neighborhood.

 

On Saturday mornings, without fail (unless it’s “monsoon-ing”) there is a farmer’s market and some food trucks stop by.  People come from all over town (and neighboring ones) to buy local produce and handmade products from earrings to pies and sample cheeses and fudge. Some weekends an acoustic band plays local music underneath the enormous, old oak trees while people, old and young alike, gather at the picnic tables or sit on the ground, a blanket of leaves underneath them.  Others meander around, gathering their purchases, saying hello to their neighbors and friends.  I smile anytime I see a musician with an accordion. One of the food trucks has the best pulled pork I’ve ever tasted.

 

 

 

Across the little cement and metal and wood bridge that stretches over the “coulee” (Cajun for creek) are several acres of land.  Included on that land are a few tree groves, some that have rope and wood swings.  There are a few old tree stumps and in the Spring many little white and yellow flowers and patches of clover sprout up as far as the eye can see.  My children climb and run and laugh and play, above them a vast blue sky full of puffy clouds.  I find joy in them making nature their playground. So do they.

 

There is talk of making this place and “better” but I am content with the way it is now, nothing blocking my view of the tree-lined horizon, no one directing my path. On one visit we may spend time on the hill, on another we may walk along the old road until it ends at the second bridge and then return again.

We usually take the dog with us, on market days or any other random afternoon when we decide to visit.  He finds other dog friends and runs and sniffs until his puppy heart is content.

 

 

 

We are all happy at this place.  During one of our latest visits I made K a tiny bouquet from the little flowers and happened to find some white gift ribbon on the ground, probably from a balloon, and I tied it up for her.  I presided over the “congregation” under the tree grove as each of my children “married” the dog and then “kissed the bride”. Hilarious and purely sweet.  We laughed until I almost peed (I am 40 now you know).

The town where we live is not known for it’s parks and recreation.  It’s nothing like what we used to have in Texas, where we lived before, with miles of cement walking and biking trails and playscapes galore and sprinkler parks.  But this place is special because it is not that way.  It is mostly as it wants to be.  Sure, they have trimmed back and cleaned up the tree areas and added some porta potties but the old red barn remains, tattered and dilapidated.  The road and bridge and fencing is all old school.  This is one of the few places in our small city that we can go and just enjoy the land as it is.  It doesn’t need an amphitheater or a huge playscape.  Would a life-size chess board be fun, sure.  But it is not needed here.

 

 

 

Not everyone in town knows about this place or takes the time to come to it and I like that. On a random Tuesday after school we are part of only a handful of people there and my kids can easily get a turn on the rope swing and play “wedding” or pirates or whatever.  I like that I can simply sit in the green grass and take in the mostly fresh air (there is a busy road fairly close by) and pick out shapes in the clouds. I love that the dog can run as fast as his furry little legs can carry him and come back to me panting for more… that there are sticks all over for him to fetch.

A place like this makes me happy for the moments that my children will remember the “Old Horse Farm” and that we spent time there doing nothing really, and just enjoying that.  Because those types of memories are some of my best childhood ones too…