Nostalgia.

I was raised just outside a small town, in a house full of family, and a backyard full of cats. The majority of my childhood had been spent on an acre of land surrounded by agricultural fields and open sky. Black clouds of birds soared among the treetops, raccoons scurried into scraggly bushes, and badgers curled up in warm, dark corners on this seemingly large acre of land. I spent my time running barefoot across the gravel driveway or laying in the sun with a cat, or three, curled up on my chest. With the abundance of nature’s distractions on this single acre of land, all squiggling, and scurrying, and squawking, my childhood was anything but dull.

I watched almost ten years pass as the methodical process of conventional agriculture occurred around me. Each spring almost endless lines of trucks, tractors, and farmers would appear on our acre, humming and pointing before climbing up into their booming, noxious machines to roar across the terrain. They would drag the sharp slender fingers of their plows over the earth, scraping deep furrows to pour in delicate yellow seeds. My sisters and I would be mesmerized as the fragile shoots of pale green cornstalks would push through the dark soil of the Midwest, reaching for the sun with outstretched hands. One day they were barely tall enough to brush against our ankles, but a good rainfall was all it took for them to shoot up to our waists. Eventually their saffron heads stretched far above where my hands could reach and their vibrant yellow would block out the sun.

My sisters and I spent long afternoons exploring that corn field, running and yelling for one another, despite our parent’s attempt to scare us from going in. They always told us that the field was like a maze and we would never make it out if we lost our way. We ignored their warnings and still managed to emerge from the field every night, right before sunset when our mom was yelling “Dinner’s ready!” from the kitchen window. We would tumble through the doorway and our parents would ask what we had been doing all day, even though the bits of tassels stuck in our hair and red rashes on our necks and arms would always give us away.

Summer brought with it hot winds and brittle grass; bronze shoulders and bleached hair. In the cooler mornings my mother and I would be bent over a patch of soft tilled earth in the yard, digging furrows of our own to fill with small, smooth seeds. Before long, sweet corn swayed in the warm breeze and we were plucking swollen tomatoes, slender green beans, and pea pods that were ready to burst. Juicy wild strawberries danced around the boundaries of the garden and pastel red apples hung low on the branches. As the summer evenings dwindled away, we diligently canned and preserved as much of the surplus as we could. These precious cans would last us through the harsh winter months when making the ten-mile trip into town wasn’t safe.

By the time fall emerged, the cornstalks in the field around us had turned a crisp gold hue and chattered and swished in the wind. Soon the trucks, tractors, and farmers returned in an even bigger frenzy than before. I watched the golden stalks slowly disappear until all that remained were the crushed leaves and a sprinkling of corn across the earth. The tree leaves transformed from greens to yellows, reds, and purples, before curling up and drifting from their comfortable positions among the sky to the thick grass below. The cool fall winds picked the leaves up and spun them across the yard before shooing them into still corners. My boots crunched through them, stirring their light bodies to flutter and drift away. Colorful beds made of leaves dotted the yard and I dashed across the grass to take turns jumping into each one.

Cold winter gusts promptly whisked the leaves away and instead replaced them with four-foot snow drifts. Ice dribbled off the roof and puffs of frost spread across the windows. The freezing winds howled and the house groaned and creaked from the strain, but we hardly noticed. Hot chocolate simmered on the stove and Christmas lights twinkled on the tree laden with ornaments and tinsel. Once the last snowball had been thrown we all tramped back inside, stomping our boots and shaking free the flurries that had gathered on our heads and shoulders. The sudden heat caused our cheeks to flush and our fingers tingled with satisfaction.

As I matured from an adolescent into a young woman, I found myself packing up my childhood into neat little boxes before they were loaded into a truck and sent to a new home. The magic of the one small acre had run its course and soon we were nestled into a three story home in the middle of town. There was no longer a backyard full of cats or black clouds of birds among the treetops, but instead a backyard full of hostas and streams of electrical cables stretching across the sky.

It’s odd to think about The Move now because I don’t remember being overcome with emotion as family friends loaded boxes of my clothes and stuffed animals into trucks and cars. I don’t recall tossing in my bed to pass sleepless nights as I mourned the land that I had grown up on and fallen in love with. In fact, I don’t remember feeling many emotions at all. I remember the dread of having to move boxes all day but it was quickly diffused with the sweetness of donuts. I remember the golden streams of sunlight stretching through the emptying house.

Were there tears rolling down my cheeks as I kissed every single cat and kitten we had raised since birth one last time before handing them to their new owners? Did I run my hands through the tall, swaying grasses or wiggle my toes in the dark muddy soil before pulling out of that driveway for the last time? Maybe my childhood naivety had spared me that sorrow because even writing these words now, eleven years later, I feel the sickness in my stomach knowing exactly what I had given up when we left that small acre.

Many seasons passed before I ever visited that place again. I usually spent my summers back in that small town helping my dad with his contracting business by cleaning and painting apartments. It was hot and dirty work, but he paid me twelve dollars an hour so I didn’t complain. I drove to and from the apartments every day for weeks and every time I crested over that last hill I felt an old habit pulling at my hands on the wheel. There was our old acre of land sitting alone on the hill overlooking the rolling farmland around it. I always had to catch myself from slowing down and pulling into the driveway, as though I was home.

Pieces of that acre had been vanishing over the years since we moved. The beautiful eastern red cedars and tall spruce that used to outline the property had long ago disappeared and in their place were rows of corn. I remember climbing up their sticky trunks just to sit among their full heads of needles and poke at busy ants, crawling to and fro as though they couldn’t recall what they were doing up their either. The massive hundred year old silver maples had long ago plummeted from their status among the clouds to be hacked and bit apart, to be stacked in neat rows for firewood. Our precious, ever-full garden became choked with weeds and thick crab grass, never to feel the curling vines of pumpkins and watermelons again.

As I scrubbed and brushed the apartment walls into a clean shade of white my dad mentioned the old house and spoke of the same habit I felt every time I passed it. He told me that it had recently been purchased by the farmer whose fields of corn had always wrapped around the acre of land. I asked him what would become of the house, even though my heart knew the answer. He looked at me with sad eyes, “It’s coming down”. My stomach dropped but I didn’t say anything. What could I say? We both felt the inevitable loss of a place that was more than just a house and some land; it was a home, a way of life.

As I drove back to town that day I found myself allowing the habit to take hold of my hands and feet, and suddenly I was parked in the driveway staring at a now empty home. It looked almost exactly the same with the dark green trim and piles of rock lining most of the way around the house that my dad always said he was going to use for landscaping; my mom and I always knew different. I could almost hear the sound of my mom cooking in the kitchen or smell the tabasco sauce we had to put on all the wood banisters to keep our dog from gnawing them to shreds. I could see my sisters and myself dodging around in the backyard as we hurled rotten tomatoes at one another and the violent snowball fights with my brother and sisters which always ended with someone crying.

Here I sat, as a twenty-one year old who had been many beautiful places and seen many amazing things, but realized that, suddenly, those moments didn’t even compare to the beauty of my childhood. It had taken me eleven years too late to feel the sorrow I had never allowed to take hold as a child. My heart broke like a worn seam and with one last strain the stitches came undone.

I pulled out of the driveway for the very last time, wiping the lone, confused tear from my cheek. As I descended from that hilltop I adjusted my rearview mirror to watch my childhood time capsule grow smaller and smaller before disappearing from view.

The next week I drove past again but this time the habit didn’t pull at me. This time the house was gone and in its place was just more farmland, as though nothing else had ever been there.