Flare, #2: Mary Oliver

You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once, and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and talked in the house.

It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor, and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild, binocular eyes.

Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air, a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.

Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.

You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner, on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed empty, but wasn't.

Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.

This poem could have been written by me, about going to my grandpa's farm in the summer. There was an old barn across from the house, and we loved going in there. We loved climbing into the lofts and looking out the big picture 'window' (no glass, just a big square cut in the barn wall). Sometimes there were cows in there. We had to be careful and watch out for rattlesnakes.

Most of my cousins were farm kids. I always felt sort of out of place on the farm. I knew enough to help and get by, but it wasn't where I felt at home, although I wanted it to be. I remember my cousin Amy one time made fun of me because I asked if they had ducks or goats on their farm. She scoffed, as if farms really had that many different animals on them (most farms out where they lived had just cows and maybe horses, possibly a sheep or two, but nothing like Old MacDonald). I felt indignant; of course a farm could have different animals, she was the uninformed one.

Restful and secret: exactly. My ex boyfriend Nate lived on a farm. They had a barn that I loved, very much. I used to go up to their farm just to hang out around the barn, just to walk in the woods by the cattle. I like how sunlight comes through the boards in the walls. I like the smell of hay. I like that there are jobs to do, repairs to be made, and that it's work that matters. Animals and plants are depending on you.

And how this poem wraps up, with running back to the house where a friendly uncle greets you. A page out of my childhood. My grandmother made plates of sandwiches for everyone. White bread, with mayonnaise and sliced turkey or roast beef. Sometimes peanut butter and jam for the kids. Glasses of milk. Lots of cookies. Everyone sitting around the table telling stories.

This makes me sad to think about. I miss my grandpa's presence here on earth. I feel very sad for this farm heritage that is so far away from me. I see now that part of the reason I want so badly to have my own house and a little bit of land is to recreate this kind of experience. Walk outside, work in the field (garden, flowerbeds), come back inside for lunch. Feel connected, tell stories, sit and laugh and eat and play with the kids. It's so normalizing for me. I feel like if I had no farm to go to, ever, no outside yard, no family gatherings... what a loss.

And yet, I never felt truly connected to the farm side of the family. I always felt more at home with the surfer side, the kooky side. But I feel, in my heart, a yearning for that sort of down-home rootedness.

I always wanted to have my place at the table, I guess.