When I was a very little girl, my parents began taking me to my Great Aunt Bernice's home, a place we all called "The Farm." When Auntie bought the place, back in the 1940's, it had been a recently-abandoned working farm. Mother said the cows had been in the house, causing imaginable (and unimaginable) havoc. When she was in college, Mother helped fix the place up. Dad courted Mom while she stood on a ladder, painting the kitchen. He read poetry while she wielded her brush. This, truly, was an historic place for our family.

The Farm was located outside of Lancaster, Ohio on a piece of land that ascended to one of the highest points in Fairfield County. If I walked on past the blue clapboard house, through the oak trees to the top of the rise, a panoramic view awaited me. Looking out from this high spot, I saw farms for miles below. It was a place to listen for blue jays and crows, a place to find the occasional arrowhead. I once found small pieces of a meteor near the crest of the hill.

The actual barn, located down a slight rise and across the gravel driveway, was falling apart by the time I arrived on the scene. There were elderberry bushes around back of the barn, and we used to pick them and put them with apples from the orchard, making elderberry-apple pie. Nothing tasted better, served up with some of Dad's creamy homemade vanilla ice cream. The first time I ever smelled skunk was in this barn. To this day, that pungent odor brings me back to Aunt Bernice's farm. It is not an unpleasant smell for me; for an instant I am reliving some of the happiest days of my childhood.

Several times, we pitched our first family tent in the orchard near the barn. The tent was one of those old, heavy dark green canvas jobs which are not even made today. Later in our camping life, we got a larger tent which was a lighter color of green. But this tent—maybe something Dad had picked up at the Army Surplus store—this one was special. It represented the excitement of sleeping outdoors along with the security of knowing that the house was just across the lane.

Big family gatherings were often held at The Farm. Christmas celebrations took place in the parlor, a smallish room off of the kitchen. The tree, sitting next to the fireplace, exuded a lovely pine scent. Looking out the window next to the tree, I could see a large cedar tree. The walls were decorated with various reproductions of landscapes and portraits from a bygone era. I think the Gainsborough's "Blue Boy" was amongst them.

In summer months, barbecues were held out back. The smell of chicken cooking, the sounds of the screen door opening with a squeak and slamming shut as Mom and Grandma and the Aunties carted food in and out, the laughter - all come back to me as I recall these happy times.

By the time I was in Junior High, Auntie had sold this property and moved into Lancaster proper. But The Farm is the special place, the magic place of my childhood. On a recent visit back to the Midwest, my wife and I stayed with my Uncle Jim, who lives not far from this place. He knows the people who own it now, and took me and Tina back to see it. Driving up the lane (which is now a paved driveway), we rounded the familiar bend and there was the house.

The house has been repainted, the barn no longer stands. One familiar thing remains. The old cedar tree, the one I used to sit underneath in summer and observe through the parlor window in winter, still stands. Its long boughs still dip down, inviting children to hop up and have a sit. It is as if part of my childhood has been preserved, the very best part at that. Nice to know that others are making memories in some of the same places that mean so much to me.

~ Julie Snider