The buildings on the property we’re soon to leave are falling apart. My daughter is the fourth generation to live in the house where she was born, and she will be the last. Even as the concrete walls crack and the wallpaper peels, the house feels alive, and tired.
The barn is filled with well over a half-century’s accumulation, and the interesting old things fascinate and delight me. Most have gone untouched in the years we’ve lived here and for decades before.
(A series.) It’s easier as we prepare to move to value the positives of this place, where we’ve existed as foreigners for the past few years. Our differences with the people here, with the land, with the weather, are great. But we’ve found common ground in places, and I will spend the months leading up to our final departure examining it, and attempt to make peace.