The Farm

Every spring I escape to a place that is near and dear to my heart. This place is where my entire family gathers to eat an amazing meal and create priceless memories. For one day everyone abandons all of their other plans. No excuses are accepted. You will be shunned if you are not in the farm house kitchen by 12:00 noon on the Saturday before Easter. Okay, so we aren’t that serious but it’s your mistake if you are late because that just pushes you to the very back of the lengthy buffet line. That is not a place where you want to be. Every surface of the kitchen is covered with a delicious looking dish. Since the line wraps around the kitchen and dining room you are able see, smell and salivate until you get your plate and utensils.

The farm belongs to my late Uncle Bill and Aunt Betty. They built the new house in 1973, a year after the massive flood destroyed their river-front farmhouse. From what I am told, that flood wreaked havoc on many homes and businesses, my aunt and uncle’s homestead being one of them. Their new house sits back about a half mile from the river. The remains of their old stone farmhouse are visible as you turn into their driveway.

I am sure the farm holds many precious memories for my parent’s generation; it also holds a special nostalgia for my cousins and me. At the time they lived in Delaware and only came to Pennsylvania a few times a year. So when we got together it was bound to be a good time. With 30+ acres as our playground, we were able to run wild without scrutinizing parent supervision. We flew kites until they were just a speck in the sky. We ran through the fields, unraveling more and more string until the kites and wind overtook our measly strength. Then we were off to a new adventure. Sometimes we would run on top of the hay bales pretending that the ground was quicksand. All was well until pudgy Paul Jr. fell between two bales and none of us could dig him out. That was the last time he played Quicksand with us. We had some really serious Easter egg hunts on that farm too. We usually came out of it with grass stained clothes and huge bags of candy. It was only that one time that Paul Jr. ended up with a fat lip. Nobody ever seemed to know how that happened. I remember when we got a little older, maybe 11 or 12, we wanted to learn how to drive a car. This adventure did require adult supervision. (We had to get the keys somehow.) We would hop in the driver’s seat with any willing grown-up beside us, hit the pedal and bounce down the stone lane towards the barn. It was a straight, half mile road leading to adulthood.

Each year our adventures seemed to get a little less wild. Games of Quicksand were now being played by own younger cousins, while we sat on the porch listening to music on own Walkmans. We didn’t care much about driving anymore because most of us had our license. We still enjoyed seeing each other but our visits were different.

Now we are moving into a new phase. Our generation will be bringing our own kids to the farm next Easter. Although they will only be babies, my cousins and I already know what this farm will mean to our young children.