Ghosts in the yard

         

About a month and a half ago we went to Upper Michigan with family. Specifically, we went to the farm. My dad's childhood home (the home in which his own father was literally born), and the 99 acres that come with it.  My grandparents have not been with us for many years, and my dad and a couple of his brothers currently own the farm. None of them live there, but they all go up there from time to time to see old friends, fish, chop wood, and do other things that let them know that they can still call Tapiola, and more specifically that 99 acres, home. 

This trip had been in the works for a year or so. It was my idea, actually - I wanted Oliver to see where the other half of my extended family comes from (more or less), and I wanted my dad to show Nils the U.P. The U.P. and the farm mean more to my dad than, say, Kenosha and my parents' house mean to me. Some people are "of a place", and my dad is of those.

I hadn't been to the farm in nearly 10 years - the last time was for my grandma's funeral. Seeing it again after so long was wonderful. I have a lot of good memories: running around with cousins, playing with animals (back when there were still animals), walking through the woods by myself and finding a secret place to read. It was a bit sad, too. I looked out at the grass and saw myself and my cousins running around. I saw my aunts, uncles, and grandparents drinking beers and chatting. There were always so many people... and now it was quiet.

My dad told stories from his childhood, and I could tell that he was also watching people run around in the grass. There was the summer that his mother's sister and her (5?) children came to live with them. 10 kids, three adults, a steady stream of visitors. Mayhem. There was no room in the house, so my dad slept in the hayloft of the barn all summer - he said it was the best summer of his life.