Post 4

Julia
Mr. H Salsich
8 November 2009

Every journey has a noble beginning and a rewarding end, but there is always something in between. When I think of all of my childhood memories, the location that I see the most is High Lonesome Farm. I see the first times I craned my neck to look up at the horses, who glanced back with pure affection in their eyes. This was the beginning. I see the days I walked the wise, old paths with dogs, cats, horses, and people, all best of friends connected in a way that words could never explain. It seemed as though we did not choose the path ourselves, but the path chose our direction, often leading us to marvelous adventures. These adventures were a middle point, no experience could compare to the pure joy of the days at the barn.

Then came the falling action to awaken me from this fairy tale. The death of John, who owned the barn with his wife Karen, should not have been a surprise to me. His awful case of Pneumonia had weakened him, and old age creeped upon him. His fatal condition had occored to me, but did not seem realistic. The day he died, a part of me died too.

So, on a rainy Tuesday, I hauled open the huge barn doors, and stepped inside the old, old barn. That was the last time I ever did. Somehow, John's death had forced Karen to give up the farm; the dusty riding ring, the ranch house, the barns, and even the wooded trails. Everything flew by, the agreement the barn would be kept as a historical monument, then the violation of the agreement. I once saw the immense dumpsters full of the splintering yellow wood and debris that were once a loved place, with a newly paved parking lot and heavy construction equiptment. I never dared muster the bravery to glimpse back, closing my eyes as tightly as possible when in the area.

I have always thought of that rainy Tuesday as the end of the story. Now, I do not. No matter what anyone takes from the land where the barn stood proudly, the soil that was once pawed by horses, scratched by chickens, trampled by sheep, and knelt in by the little girl who explored every inch of the ancient land will still sit. In many years, I may find enough courage to revisit the soil. Maybe even the woods are still there. I may take a right at the fork in the trail past the farthest pasture and kneel by the old oak tree to check for the red mushrooms, which every five-year-old girl knows are planted by mushroom fairies.