Every time I go for a visit to my parent’s house I take pictures. This is not all that unusual except that every time I go I take pictures of the same things. I can not have enough pictures looking out into the pasture, looking out at the old barns.
Several of them are full of dry firewood, split and stacked there by my father’s hands. It is hard to imagine that it has been almost a year since he died.
I take pictures of the trees. I remember being a young girl sitting bareback on my horse named Harvey. I would jump up upon his back with no saddle or bridle, no reins to tell him where I wanted him to go. He would respond to the gentle pressure from my legs or a whisper of a word from my mouth as I lay across his back, my arms wrapping his neck in a loving hug. Or more often than not, he would choose to completely ignore me and eat grass or try to gently scrape me off his back by walking under the low hanging branches. That rascal Harvey had personality in spades.
I take pictures of the well house and rain barrels, fence posts and mushrooms. I capture hawks and bald eagles as they fly overhead knowing full well that those birds fly far beyond the capabilities of my little point and shoot camera.
I can not get enough of the land and the sky surrounding my childhood home.
And, of course I take pictures of the boys walking the land that I once walked as a child and return to as an adult.
I love that I can still visit the location where my childhood memories continue to linger.
I love that my children are forming some of their own childhood memories where mine once were created.