A Country Place

August 13, 2010

Farms harbor fertile fields...and stories.  I've always said that somewhere in this world, there's a person who was born on the same day and in the same hospital as myself.  Long before the days of careful infant identification, a negligent nurse mixed up two newborns.  Thus, the baby whose penchant for farm life always confused her urban parents had been unintentionally exchanged for me.  I was convinced that I belonged elsewhere and I spent my childhood imploring my daddy to move us to town.

Nevermind that Daddy's parents lived in our farmhouse immediately after their marriage at the end of the 19th century or the fact that he'd been born in the room where he slept and would eventually die.  Clearly he wasn't leaving his home.

So, this often disconsolate farm girl discovered books very early in life and that has been my salvation.  Without moving anywhere, I could be everywhere, transported by the limitless power of words.

Years on the farm were spent riding my horse, Stardust; picking and then consuming dusty blackberries which grew along the fences that divided our pastures; and attending services at the nearby church.  I thought the distance from town was at least 20 miles, but it was actually merely seven.   Our household constantly hosted family visitors.  With six sets of aunts and uncles, an indomitable Granny, and 15 first cousins (plus even more in the next generation),  there was ample family to enjoy.  My younger brother and I played endlessly with a little boy whose family also lived on the farm.  None of us, however, seemed adept in our environment.  Maybe I wasn't the only one who was misplaced.

I do remember feeling lonely much of the time.  I longed for houses close by, a neighborhood street in which to ride my bike, a store where sodas and candy could be purchased.  Books helped vanquish my feelings of unrest.  A favorite story from my childhood, of which I have no personal memory, was shared by my mother.  It perfectly illustrates the power of print in my life.

One summer Sunday, the family was out in a distant field, looking for stray cattle.  Suddenly my parents realized that a little girl had gone missing.  I was about five years old at the time.  My name was shouted loudly as they began to scour the area for any sign of me.  Looking in bayous, they hoped not to find a small body.  As panic began to overtake them, the two worried parents hurried back to the house to call the Sheriff and other family members to organize a wider search.  With eleven ponds on the place, lots of meandering livestock, thick wooded areas, and those bayous, time could not be wasted.

As they approached the house with its screened-in back porch and concrete steps, sighs of relief escaped from their tense bodies.  Perched quite contentedly on the very top step was the errant daughter, totally engrossed in a book.

I believe the joy of finding me unharmed mitigated any punishment.  If it were administered, Mother kept that part of the story to herself.

As the brilliant Emily Dickinson said, 'There is no frigate like a book.....'  It is forever true for me.