August 30, 2012

Emris Forest

"Looking back"

A few short days ago, a darling friend of mine and I went exploring and picture taking on an old abandoned farm near her house, and the day turned out to be quite an adventure!

There is something so mysterious about ancient abandoned properties.  Beautiful, yet haunting.  As we snapped pictures and ventured through and between the massive red buildings, I allowed my mind to wander into the unknown past.  The sights and smells that must have been came to my mind, and the “ghost town” came to life like shadows of a long-forgotten story.  The rays of sunlight that peered through the cracked walls and played on the concrete floors became the forms of the cattle that had once inhabited the neat stalls that separated the barn, bustling in the excitement for their evening meal.  Farm hands laughed and joked with each other as they wiped dirty sweat of their foreheads and forked hay into the long wooden racks that lined one side of the pen.

The hot afternoon sun had baked the soil in the now-overgrown pastures that contained the herd, and occasionally, the rooster would crow at the top of its lungs from the adjacent coop.  Clouds of dust and the muffled pounding of cleft hooves filled the air.

My companion and I retreated for lunch to a spot of grass behind the place a brick house had once stood. It had been destroyed years ago, but fragments of the red stone which had composed it rested beneath the elegant oaks that created a graceful barrier around the place.  We spread a blanket on the lawn and as we set out our victuals, my imagination took me away again.  I saw a tall house surrounded by neatly trimmed shrubbery and summer flowers.  An old rusty Chevrolet pick-up rumbles up the drive, and a lanky brunette teenage girl pops out in a white sundress.  She slams the heavy metal door, and waves to the young man in the driver’s seat as she bounces up the porch steps and through the screen door.  The boy drives off leaving the house in a bigger cloud of dust, and when the roar of the machine dies down, the childish voices of younger siblings can be heard, teasing their sister about her young love, and the sweet reprimands of their mother.  The eldest plays the baby grand piano nestled cozily in the living room and I can almost hear the ghostly sound whispering through the wind.  She treasures the instrument more than any other possession; her father had worked for the neighbor in trade for it.
"A Missing Life"

The tremendous sense of peace and simplicity of the country life engulfs the little bit of heaven.  The mystery that surrounds those kinds of places simply enthralls me.  All the history that has been forgotten, and the stories we can piece together with the artifacts we find.  And now, all these decades later, my friend and I could still savor a piece of it.

We christened the area "Emris Forest."

August 17, 2012

A Part of Me...

A part of me lives in California now.  

We shared a sleeping bag when we were very small.  

We shared sweet warmth of friendship iced with the coldness that nighttime knows, and cluttered camping tents, which hide no insulation in their walls.  

We shared deep secrets, giggles, dreams, and plans on boiling summer nights too hot for sleep.  

We nestled in security of love, which multiplied by time was larger yet, instilling us with the knowledge that we were to spread that love to others in this world.  

We shared the problems only children have, and some too large for childish backs to bear alone.  

We told each other it would be all right.  

We dreamt of somewhere else, but “somewhere else” too swiftly has become two-thousand miles and more between us two.  

But sisters in the soul and friends we remain.  

The human heart has no odometer.  

We’ll never really be apart.  

Happy Birthday, darlin'!