I know I’ve been reflecting a lot lately about how hard it is to say goodbye to something (somewhere or someone) for good. And, how hard it is to walk away, knowing you can’t go back; to a place, or how things used to be.

But – is that always the case?

If given the chance – the opportunity – would you? Will the change that has inevitably happened (for better, or for worse) break your heart? Will a bitter taste be left in your mouth? Will your memories still be re-ignited? Lit back on fire in your heart? Will you be flooded by nostalgia? A rainstorm so appreciated at the end of a long drought?

Or, will it feel like drowning?

This fall I had the chance to walk down a memory lane I didn’t think I’d ever walk again. Thirteen years ago, when my Grandmother passed away, my Grandpa sold their farm.

As much as that was heartbreaking, it was necessary. It didn’t make sense for Grandpa to stay there alone. The adults of the family (I was one of them, by then) were all busy. Too busy to realize what we were losing; what we were saying goodbye to.

I hadn’t fully realized the impression their farm had left on me until I was asked about it this summer; until I was pressed to reminisce. Until I started to talk, and literally couldn’t stop. Until someone – who was intrigued and interested – was content to sit back, listen, and re-live my memories with me.

It was as if they mattered as much to him as they do to me.

Having grown in a volatile environment, the farm was a safe place; a place where I was free to actually be a child. I could play and imagine with abandon. Run about barefoot from sunrise to sunset. Eat homemade food, most of which was grown or raised within a hundred feet of where I laid my head at night.

I can still smell it. Taste it. Feel it, as if it were yesterday.

At the farm I didn’t have a care in the world. My insecurities and anxieties didn’t follow me over the threshold of the property. My pervasive bellyaches ceased to exist. Boredom did, too. I delighted in the simplest of pleasures.

When at the farm I felt completely alive. Every burden I was forced to carry at too young an age was stripped from me and hung at the door.

A sign can still be found at the foot of the driveway. It was hand-made and beautifully painted by my Grandfather himself. He was a master of creativity. The sign was once a glorious sunset painted behind the words “Sey-Mour Sunsets”. You can still see faint traces and remnants of his work.

I couldn’t help but reach out and touch it.

The farm is in Seymour Township. The message on the sign was my Grandfather’s clever play on words. When I stayed with them as a child I did just that. Come to think of it, I saw more sunrises, too. With them, there, we took pause to appreciate the things you miss in the hustle bustle of every day, even as a child.

As long as I got up with the sun I was able to help Grandpa feed the cows. I’ve never been a morning person, but there – because of that -I was. I didn’t want to miss a thing. It was as if I could feel the sun about to creep up over the horizon, even in a state of deep and content sleep. To be safe I’d always leave the curtains drawn wide. Out of three spare bedrooms, I always slept in the one whose window faced east.

I’d start to see the room coming into focus as the light trickled in. As soon as I could see I’d change from my pajamas and then get back into bed, fully clothed. Like clockwork, I’d hear Grandpa’s footsteps make their way steadily across the upstairs of the house. He’d stand in the doorway for a split second and utter the words, “You comin’?”

As if he even had to ask.

I’d bolt out of bed and rush along behind him. I didn’t make a peep. That early in the morning, before Grandma had even put her face on and made an appearance, before coffee, we didn’t talk much. I knew better.

The days were blurs of fresh air and adventure. Sometimes we went back to school shopping at the local mall. Sometimes Grandpa took me to the animal auctions. We’d buy Smarties in bulk and eat them while we sat together, silently watching the proceedings. On those days, Grandma always wondered why my appetite wasn’t what it usually was. The Smarties were our secret.

As the sun started to set we’d go out to pick dessert. Sometimes that was Grandpa’s pint-sized cantaloupes. He’d cut them in half and scoop out the seeds. Then he would hand me my half, and a spoon. We’d scoop out the flesh, still warm from a day in the sun, scraping it down to the rind. Other evenings it would be fresh picked strawberries, sliced, sprinkled with sugar and then drizzled with fresh cream. Sometimes it was a scoop of vanilla ice cream with raspberries or plum slices on top.

It was always something they lovingly grew and tended to. You could taste that. Love makes everything sweeter.

We’d watch whatever Grandma and Grandpa wanted to watch on TV. I never argued or protested. I was content to be a fly on their wall.

My grandfather was such a hard worker; such an incredible husband, father and man. My grandmother raised four boys and made it look easy, was an entrepreneur for years, and had limitless skills and passions she somehow balanced and honoured while being the best homemaker I’ve ever known.

And they loved me – fiercely – in their own separate ways.

They loved each other – fiercely – in a way I’ve rarely witnessed elsewhere since.

After talking and talking (and talking) about the farm my friend suggested I go back. I thought he was crazy. You don’t go back. They don’t live there anymore.

He said it doesn’t matter. He insisted I should.

Lo and behold the opportunity arose. Thankfully I had his company, his courage and his confidence with me for the drive; for the entire experience. I’d never have done it otherwise.

I found I counted and acknowledged all of the same landmarks that day (as we followed the path my heart was taking from memory) as I did as a child. I didn’t know if I’d know where to turn. I warned I may not be able to get us there.

As if I ever doubted my heart wouldn’t find its way.

When driving up the driveway I felt a healthy mix of fear, apprehension and excitement. I didn’t know how we’d be received. I felt the same eagerness I felt every time I arrived there as a child.

Thankfully the new owner was outside. He was shy, but also seemed to enjoy hearing about the previous owners from someone who loved and knew them (and their property) so well.

He invited us to walk the property.

We did.

In essence, it was the same. It was a thrilling playground then and I couldn’t help but feel the same feelings that I felt there as a child. Standing at the edge of the cornfield I reminisced about the tractor rides, where Grandpa would lay the lounger cushions in the bucket. He’d lift Grandma and I high up in the sky and take us for tours of the property. We’d pull right up to wild grape vines, clinging to tree trunks and fence posts. We’d eat the sour grapes and weave the vines into headbands we’d wear as we continued the tour. At the end of a telltale tractor ride he’d go as fast as he could up the driveway. Our stomachs flipping over the hills. My hair blowing behind me in the wind.

It was the closest to being a bird I’ve ever been, and I loved it.

The man who owns the property now still has that tractor. He remarked at how well my Grandfather must have taken care of it.

He took care of everything that way, though.

It’s just what he did.

Then we walked through the foundation of the old barn. Before my grandparents bought the property there had been a fire. The shell of the barn still remains. I remember finding remnants of blackened wood in the vicinity and imagining they were pieces of treasure. Running in and out of the doorways playing tag and hide and go seek with my step-sisters. Sitting in the window ledges with my legs dangled over, watching the sun start to set.

It’s more overgrown now. Trees are growing straight up through the cement. Vines cascade down from the tree branches. It’s more magical now than it ever was; a secret garden, of sorts.

As anticipated, things are older. More worn. Broken down. Faded.

Changed.

But then again, so am I.

So many things seemed smaller; the gazebo (where Grandma and I faithfully took our oatmeal each morning), the shed (that strategically hid the snap pea vines so I could sneak them without being caught), the small side porch Grandpa built for Grandma so she could hang her laundry on the line (a lookout or tower in a child’s mind).

Others were bigger; like the fruit trees I remember as mere saplings, which Grandpa lovingly tended to like newborn babies. Clusters of apples were still clinging to the branches, threatening to break the limbs if they didn’t continue to bend.

I stepped on a wasp in my bare feet under those fruit trees, while kicking a soccer ball with my brother. They grow next to the field of clover I faithfully fed the cows whenever I got the go-ahead. Grandpa always said it would make the meat sweeter, but they shouldn’t get too much.

The tree where the rope swing was still stands, although the branch the rope was knotted to has broken free. The expansive vegetable gardens have been seeded with grass again. Grandma’s perennial gardens aren’t what they used to be.

Few could ever rival the Valleau duo at the Campbellford Fair. Jack’s veggies and crafts, and Chuck’s knitting and flower arrangements were hard to beat. Their collections of red ribbons were proof. The new owner acknowledged that, and the fact that the place ‘isn’t what it used to be’.

But it shouldn’t be.

I wasn’t expecting it to be.

Things change as much as people do. Places, too. We must learn to be forgiving of time and what it does to the insides and outsides of what we love or once loved. We must respect the process and evolution we can’t deny.

We must embrace the same inside ourselves; honour growth, respect time, accept (and celebrate) what it does to us (the good and the bad).

We can’t stay stuck. We can’t press rewind.

But thank goodness we can reminisce. Thank heavens for the people who want to hear. Who want to go. Who egg us on.

Sometimes we can’t see the positive effect something has had on us until much later. Sometimes it takes someone else recognizing it first.

I will likely never go back again, but I don’t need to now.

I’d always wanted to. I’d always longed to. I’d always had the urge.

It was unfinished business that had taken the breath out of me, but I had never put my finger on it.

Now I know. Now the breath has been breathed back in.

An appreciated rainstorm after a long drought.

-C. Mom