the old house

Devoid of any flesh or rot, as if it had always been a skeleton, never a horse — as though muscles, tendons and ligaments had never moved its spectacular form — the remains bleached white under the prairie sun, became a destination we returned to year after year, a monument of our annual summer pilgrimage. It lay unchanged, as did the rest of the property. Though it was apparent time had at some point transformed this creature, this entire place, from its original state — a bustling general store, post office and homestead — it seemed as though it had somehow happened all at once and time had forgotten to return, continuing its steady progression forward. 

It always began with too long a journey. Road trip games were punctuated by car fighting, we loudly boasted completing the alphabet, signalling both the end of the game and our winning — a lie, it was always a lie — and as if in the confines of the car volume determined truthfulness, we shouted our false victory. “A zed!” If we were lucky the shouting ended the game, although most often we did not favour concession, and shouting led to fist fights, which led to time outs. Whether we were involved in the backseat mischief or not (we were, we always were, in one way or another), we were instructed from the front seat, to sit on our hands. Angry with our new predicament we had to work harder to irritate our back seat companions further. With a dirty look, words or elbows we always succeeded, and it never failed, we would be sitting on our hands with our heads in our laps for what seemed like a significant portion of our trip.

Excitement rose as we neared the farm, it always did. As we travelled the long straight roads, we watched for familiar signs. As the road turned to gravel we knew we were close and we strained to look for something the dark and monotonous prairie fields kept hidden from our longing eyes. Some how none of it was familiar and yet all of it was. 

We parked our car on the hard packed dirt between the old house and the new one. The old weathered house looked out at the new one. Forlorn and leaning, it timidly called to us, offering endless opportunity for exploration if we should give it a chance. The new house wore fresh paint, robins egg blue, it stood square flaunting electricity as the mosquito trap buzzed and sparked as it caught its prey. The new house would be home for the next week. Bags in hand, we followed our great grandfather inside the new house, but it was the old house that held our curious hearts captive. 

It required no imagination to see my young grandmother dutifully throwing seed for the chickens that freely roamed the hardened soil in front of her childhood home. Swept up in times past, we found ourselves being drawn into the old house, past the creaky door, into the house that preserved artifacts of another lifetime under its dilapidated roof. 

Candy remained in tall glass jars on a long counter where the general store and post office once bustled. Even now I wonder about the tremendous amount of restraint required for those jars to remain full for decades with two young children living so nearby. How was it decided what goods would be moved into the cellar of the new house, and what would be forever preserved in the forgotten home?

We crept past the banjo that still hung on the wall, turning up the dark, narrow stairway, clutching the railing. Each tread, leaning slightly, squeaked under the weight they only bore once each year. 

We inspected the bedrooms, still furnished, items abandoned as though the house would have immediately collapsed should they had been removed. Maybe we should have paid more attention to my great grandfathers cautioning, “be careful” and took notice that he never followed us into the old house. We explored each inch of the old house before temporarily closing the door, promising to visit again the following year, in turn the old house too promised to continue to carefully protect its contents.

We rode a horse in a large figure eight, mowed into the long prairie grass that only rustled slightly in the prairie breeze, so tall, it seemed it had never bent under the cruel weight of snow. We rode past the silo, over and over — still full of corn, for the cattle that used to roam the fields it so proudly looked out on. It threatened to swallow us whole if we did not pay it the respect it was owed and so we kept our distance as it towered over us.

We were trusted with the motor trike and spent a great deal of time darting through the adjoining fields. We toured out to the old horse skeleton pondering the grandeur of the creature and the expanse. What was its story? We found ourselves creating a narrative for the incredible beast in its final moments, each one grander than the last as we gazed into its empty eyes. Perhaps it had died of old age, on a warm summer evening, such as this. Perhaps it had finished its day, a dutiful companion and work horse, it simply laid down its head and fallen asleep surrounded by several of its knowing friends and passed from this life into the next one. The gentle grass blew and the starlings performed their evening dance in the darkening sky. Or perhaps it had become lost and found by a pack of wolves on a blustery snowy night, it had put up a valiant fight, but at the end it succumbed to its predators and nourished their bodies for the coming days. Perhaps with freshly filled bellies, the wolves taught their young the spirit of gratitude as they leaned back and howled beneath the moon, giving thanks to the earth for providing. The young wolves echoed their sentiments.  

At night we sifted through old coins, and rummaged through war time memorabilia. We listened closely to stories from my great grandfathers time as a mechanic in the war. He waved his bent finger in the air, recounting a story for each piece we held up. 

We delved into the relics in the new house, the eight tracks in the closet of the upstairs bedroom, replaced by the large record player in the living room downstairs — a photo of our late great grandmother adorned its side. I think I remember her or at least I imagine remembering her one stormy night, though she never exists, in my mind anyway, outside of that room. 

We busied ourselves for days on the homestead, a place where both the past and the present somehow existed simultaneously. Just when it seemed we had explored every area, it was over. We found comfort upon packing for home, knowing the farm would be waiting for our next visit, we would find it exactly the same, and we did year after year after year.