Relative Something

A friend once asked me what it was like to have had such an idyllic childhood, after I described what I remembered about my early years growing up on a farm. Yes, that property which my grandfather purchased after the end of World War II was a great place for a kid to live. I’m discovering it may have made more of an impression on me than I have been aware. (See posts about that farm, published here in Relative Something, 3-years ago, starting here.)

Yesterday, Cyndie and I drove to visit the property we are soon purchasing, and then have dinner at a local restaurant in recognition of the 31st wedding anniversary we reached this past week. Part of me was interested in departing during rush hour, to get some exposure to what the traffic pattern is like at a time of day I may be trying to get home from the day-job. The rest of me didn’t really care much at all about that, because, regardless the traffic, the destination is just so incredibly thrilling.

The late September afternoon couldn’t have been any more perfect, for the crisp, clean air, bright sunshine, and, sprawling out in front of us, to the east, a spectacular cloud formation that grew increasingly dark-gray at the bottom, washing down to earth, as a result of the rain falling out of it.

I had it in mind to turn off the primary highway, shortly after we crossed into Wisconsin, to check out local roads that appear to be the most direct route to our property, as viewed from overhead on a map.

Our dreamy fairy tale of discovering this perfect property is one that just couldn’t be any better, …except it keeps becoming more so.

Getting off the main road, with its wide frontage and striped pavement, and onto scenic, rolling, narrow country roads, turned out to be better than I imagined. Some of the pavement is even freshly laid this summer. The scenes that unfold include dramatic vistas of forested hills and picture-perfect swaths of farmed fields. So much of the drive to our property is akin to staring into a multitude of fabulous paintings of quintessential country landscape scenery, it feels surreal, especially after decades of driving in the suburban metropolitan scene-scape of which we are long familiar.

When we pulled up the driveway (which Cyndie had me check on the car’s odometer: a quarter of a mile long), and I considered the thought that this would be my entrance to home every day, there was a sense of awe that felt supernatural. It also felt familiar, like this is a return to something I know from long ago.

I can’t help but think of my father, and his experience on the farm property his father had purchased. There are some deep-seated memories being awakened by this wonderful wooded property in the country. I’m not entirely sure whether I am recognizing my father’s experience, or my own childhood memories.

I think the familiarities that would come from both, are probably shared.