Thank you Mr. Page

I will always think of the Farm as it looks in this picture. As a functionally elegant yet decrepit building that smelled of mice, mildewed paper, termites, creosote and dusty bricks. This is how I remember it. Even today and despite the fact that my Father has over the course of decades of summers rebuilt by his own hand almost every wall, window, roof and riser. This will always be my version of the Farm.  The first time I saw it, I was five and I loved it. I didn't want it to ever change. I loved it the way it was. I have always been hugely sentimental and it was sincere and unpretentious. As well, there were places to discover. Nooks where secrets lived, tiny apothecary bottles left behind tucked between studs, scattered papers with barely legible handwriting practically used to cover walls, then yellowed and faded.

My parents, however, had a very different idea about how their farm should live on. Together they planned and worked (my Mother did the planning and my Father did the working) to transform this place into a wonderful home on a beautiful property. There were acres of woods, streams and gulches, fallow hayfield hills covered in tall grass, meadows of wild strawberry, quiet ponds with toads, snakes and catfish, ancient orchards of apple and pear, ash groves, wild elderberry thickets and fragrant onions  . . . I could go on and on. I would love nothing better than to live here for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, the "here" in this picture doesn't exist any longer. A new version does.

Today, the farm is still beautiful. The house is livable, the grounds are kept and the outbuildings have been rebuilt. A huge barn now sits to the south near where the original once stood. The neighbor borrowed it when the original owner, Mr. Page, died. Despite it's beauty and appeal, when I look at these pictures I ache for the Farm in my picture book memory. The simple, quiet house with the plain wagon-rut drive, the corn crib and fields crossed occasionally by only the rustiest barbed wire. There is something so entirely captivating and glorious about the vibrant style of this simple building.

I'm always sad when I think about how the old Roscoe Page farmstead has been transformed into the Freudenburg Farm. At the same time, I grateful for the foresight of my parents in purchasing this wonderful little oasis.

Thank you Mr. Page for giving my parents the framework to build our family upon. You could not have had the vaguest notion how much they needed it. I would have loved to have met you and listened to your stories about the place I only know as "The Farm."

The Farm

When my family first began going to the farm - a forty acre piece of property with a two-room house as old as Noah - I was five years old. My brother was almost three.

According to my parents, the only reason they bought it was because our original weekend trip to Taquamenon Falls had been ruined by my brother's constant and unexplained crying for 24 hours straight that left my parents so completely exhausted, frustrated and disappointed that they packed up the tent and left for the safety of my grandparents house. I always believed they simply wanted to give my brother to the first available person they could find because he was making them crazy.

I don't know what could be 'unexplained' about a kid crying his eyes out when you stick him in an unheated, mosquito-infested tent out in the middle of nowhere with all sorts of weird sounds, unfamiliar surroundings and tell him to go to sleep after he slept the entire day away during the car trip there. Hmmmm . . .

My Tree

The Farm. I can hardly believe that I haven't really touched on this place yet, but - there you have it.
Like many places, the farm has created or is the canvas for the bulk of my significant memories. Some good and some kind of horrible and scarry.
As is the case with most of my memories, I remember this day and everything about it. I was bored. My Dad was busy working on the house as he always was regardless of which property my family was inhabiting. My Mother was again attempting to return to her favorite past life as an 18th century Gentleman's wife, content to amuse herself with gardening, needlework and the most cursory oversight of her splendid children while someone else was responsible for running the household. Unfortunately, and much to her constant chagrin, there were no servants in her actual middle-class existence.

I wore my favorite sweatshirt, a faded orange with darker orange ribbing around the sleves, hem and neckline, emblazoned with a transparent Mickey Mouse face in the center. The sleeves were too tight and they pinched under my arms, but I loved it because it was otherwise soft.

This tree in particular was 'my tree.' My tree smelled like musky bark, ants, apple cider and clothespins.


It stood and still stands at the edge of the orchard, was easy to climb into and had a natural little seat in the craw of it. When I was six, it was 106 and beginning a reluctant decline. Today it lives in the dusk of it's life, barely hanging on to it's stately silouette and producing the most meager crop of tart, crisp apples. When I was six, one of it's 106 year-old branches was beginning to fail. Inattention was killing it. Bugs, age and ice were slowly doing their collective damage to remove it. But while they tried, a wonderful secret hide away was created - a rotted pocket in the huge branch that could only be seen if you climbed up into the tree and looked from above. I could fit all kinds of  things in there for safe keeping and nobody ever found them - especially my brother. He was too little to climb.

I kept all sorts of tiny possessions in that hidden nook. Buried inside and old jewelry box that was covered in white leatherette and had a noisy spring-loaded hinge and gold trim. Among the items I kept there was a gold keychain I got from the tiny antique shop at Emerald Lake - a four leafed clover, thick and heavy in my hand for such a small thing with a worn out clasp which made it impossible to use because any key you put on it would likely fall off. But most I had no keys and because my Dad hoarded keys and never let anyone else have them, including my Mother.

I had a few favorite spots at the Farm. One was another tall Maple tree that stood in the front yard close to the road. From my perch in that tree I could watch the road and listen to the near constant buzz of my Father's circular saw or the wrap of his hammer as he worked tirelessly to improve every part of the old house. The other was a huge granite rock that marked the southwest corner of the wooded area of the Farm. That rock lay under the awning of another huge Maple. My brother and I would stand atop it and sing, "Jeramiah was a Bullfrog! . . . ." at the top of our lungs so that we could hear our voices echo across the hayfield that formed a natural ampitheater. We were rockstars! The apple trees that flanked the hayfield were our most faithful audience - unless the Maney's cows got out again.

Being Robin

I was always Robin. My sister got to be Batman. I didn't mind so much. Robin was cool too. Occasionally, he was even brilliant in his own naieve, farm-boy way.
Maybe this is why I liked him. He wasn't complicated, didn't expect too much and was willing to pitch in and work to protect the values and people he trusted. Issues were pretty much black and white. People were good or bad and duplicity just didn't make the slightest bit of sense. Robin understands that he can't possibly defend the entire world and be effective everywhere, but he's content to do what he can. He's a small fish and he knows it.

Robin . . . I get. Batman. . . . not so much.

Batman is well-intentioned and knows he's in an unwinnable fight. He gets discouraged, but continues to choose to live in his own world where he can be everywhere, effect everything and franchise his morality based on the fact that he's good-looking and has money.

When I got older and my sister was no longer interested in playing "Batman and Robin" I played with my younger brother. I was still Robin. He was Batman. The whole game changed, but my part didn't. Once, we intentionally drove our plastic Batmobile toy off the barn roof and then dropped cinder blocks on it to see if it was really 'indestructable'. It wasn't. The game had gone from make believe to real life.

Similarly, Batman has also gone the way of real-world, international crime. Batman is a tech-savvy, globally connected, internationally aware, crime fighter who has underworld connections and deep-pocketed society benefactors. Robin is nowhere to be found. It's true, he made a brief comeback as Nightwing but he eventaully ran toward an introspective life after getting lost as he tried to accomplish good according to the small-town guides of his youth. He didn't play the corporate game and he didn't have outside funding. Just the lessons of his odd 'Flying Grayson' circus-geek parents and a resume that lists one very bright albeit borrowed spot of notariety as the awkward accomplice of a superhero.

I'm still Robin and my sister is still Batman.

Fort Wars

It all starts way before it should. Turf Wars.
Karl was just a plain old garden variety, low class, bully. Not smart enough to be truly dangerous. He was also the arch enemy of Steve who lived on the other side of the ditch. Brian could sway with either depending on who was offering the best advantage that day or until his father found out. Most days, during the Fort Wars, the group who had the larger supply of M-80s was the odds-on champion.

Karl's fort was in the right rear corner of his Mother's snarly backyard. Karl's accomplices were Susan's older brother - a sleepy-eyed cloud of a teen whom was rarely seen in daylight and Dennis, the neighborhood's youngest candidate for the juvenile detention facility. Dennis was much younger, so he had to work harder to be convincing as an equal threat. The Fort was at one time a detached garage, but neglect, hoarding, unfinished moves and the anticipation of immanent eviction had turned the garage into a receptacle of 'might-be' complete with broken windows, ineptly covering torn and sagging, dingy curtains that had at one time been new, dark, spider-infested shelves and Karl's projects. At 16, he was the man of the house. The garage revealed his discontented, irresponsible self hurled into the task of family protector without a strategy, tool or brain cell to his name.

Steve was smaller, red-haired and smart enough to realize that Karl's true advantage wasn't in the currency of explosives, but in his ignorant ability to continue to cope with faulty equipment, poor support and weakly constructed plans. If he was going to beat Karl, he'd simply have to outlast him. Outsmarting him was too easy. It would all be over and then what would there be to do?

The day that Steve decided to build his fort from the remains of a few barn-stained, discarded picnic tables was truly an event. However, the time he decided to paint his bedroom black (and his parents let him) rocked through the kitchen ashtrays of many of the families on our block. Judy, Sylvia and Pat all left with pinched faces waving cigarette smoke away - leaving Father's shaking their heads, Mother's wringing their hands and children silently awestruck and envious to their cores.
Steve's fort was just a simple square box. There was a door, one window and a flat roof that you could climb up the outside wall to get up to. From here, you could see over the hedge, across the ditch and into Karl's territory.
Most of the time, when both forts were occupied, hollering profanities across the ditch was as much as any kid might expect. But one day, with Dennis's inspiration and Susan's brother's brooding incentive, Karl and his tribe constructed what amounted to a crude version of a Molotov cocktail. They began hurling them from their fort towards Steve's by hand. Thankfully, Karl's unsophisticated approach left their bombs sunken and fuming in the mud of either bank of the ditch.

We laughed hysterically but for me, it was the beginning of understanding regarding boundaries, access and the map of the world I lived in that didn't look anything like the one that lay folded up, stained with coffee and worn in the glovebox of the old blue Cutlass.

The History of Recycling

That's me . . . with my blanket. I took it with me everywhere. My Mother would occasionally wash it and trim the frayed edges so it didn't look so ragged. By the time I gave it to my oldest son as a newborn, it was much smaller, more-of-a-grey-that-used-to-be-blue and nearly transparent with wear - but it was so incredibly soft. As the satin edging disintegrated and sloughed away, the protected color, a pretty light aqua-blue, could be remembered. It was a popular color in the 60s.
Those first versions of Tupperware were that color too. Like my blanket, the color faded until they were left to be consigned to the sand box with their missing lids and cracked rims. And like many items during those years, they were never thrown away, simply removed to a new and lesser caste of use until they were invisible. Eventually, those abandoned Tupperware containers made their way to the barn where they were put to use and miscellaneous cartridges for nails, washers, half-used paint sticks, bits of still usable sand paper and used razor blades that might be good for something - one day.
My parents didn't throw away anything. My younger brother wore the same clothing that both my older sister and I had. Shovels got new handles or sometimes had their handles mended with a few screws and a bandage of electrical tape. Broken windows received one new pane of glass and new glazing. Bikes provided endless opportunities to make good. They had patched tires, new seats, recycled brake pads . . . Not that my parents didn't provide us with new things. Of course they did. But once they did, that 'thing' was never ever tossed aside. As well, 'new' didn't necessarily mean 'brand-new-never-been-used' Instead, it meant, 'new-to-us.' I still have and use everyday the dresser my Dad bought me when I was eight. My son uses the same bedroom set that my grandmother bought during the war - when there were no factories left making furniture. And the bread pans in my kitchen were my Dad's mothers. Those old, thin pans work better than the new, heavy-duty, improved (and expensive) versions I bought for myself years ago by quite a bit.
Not everything was a hand me down. We weren't a proud family. Much of what we came by, we did by way of the curb, aka, the neighbor's trash pile. Today, right now, I have a solid walnut, intricately carved, rectangular, pedestal side table that sits in my front hall to receive mail, keys and other items that simply have to be put down immediately when you get home. I found it by the curb on Shiawassee Road while I was walking home from grade school one day. I couldn't have been more than ten years old. It wasn't broken or damaged in any way. It's only fault was that it was unwanted. We got a lot of our 'things' this way.
Most days, surrounded by all the items that have come to me in reverse, I don't see their histories or even think about how many people might have known and used them before I did. But they must have been.
I am just as certain that my son never knew that his blanket used to be his Mother's as I am that the same blanket was someone else's before it was mine. My parents would have never let me drag around a 'good' blanket. It wouldn't have been right.

Sand Pit

This is "The Sand Pit." I wish I knew how many pieces of old blue, faded and cracked Tupperware my sister, brother and I mistakenly abandoned in that place. We played there all the time. Sand pits like this can be found everywhere in Michigan. Every little lake community has at least one. But none of those were 'ours' so we didn't venture in. We couldn't. It's in the Sand Pit code of conduct. You stay out of ours and we won't go in yours. As far as we were concerned, this rule was respected. There was rarely anyone else there. Occasionally, a dump truck could be seen or heard rumbling in the distance. Grey-black plumbs of diesel smoke would give away their pre-dawn break-in. Most times, there was  never a sign of anyone, anything or any activity at all. The Sand Pit was an all but forgotten fixture at the cottage. A silent oasis, a steady respite and a constant, compliant vestibule of whatever game, story or land we could dream up.

This one was across the street and down a ways from my grandparents cottage on the lake. We would walk down the dirt and gravel road until we were in front of the neighbors white clapboard cottage and then turn right and go through the farm gate which was nothing more than a chain link rope drawn across a tractor path and fastened with a rusted nail bent in a arc. We walked to the right and down into the cow pasture. Getting there from here meant navigating the mine field of crusted cow pies and wading through the spaces of burning hot sand and dried, prickly field grass but it was worth it. There sat the Sand Pit - heaven! Once you dug deep enough, the sand was cool, malleable, form able and completely pure of anything sharp or thorny.

I'm fairly sure that my parents usually came with us when we went. Well, one of them anyhow. They always told us not to dig tunnels, My dad warned us that they might cave in and we would be smothered to death. Other than that, the Sand Pit wasn't dangerous. Oh, there was also Mr. McLaughlin's cows. They were also and unpredictable and intermittent albeit regular fixture. I was terrified of them. They were black and white, huge and uncontrollable as far as I could tell but they couldn't navigate the cliff, so I played there always - because they couldn't.

The best part about the sand pit is that we could go up to the top, climb over the edge and if we backed up a bit and got a running start (which was difficult because you had to simultaneously avoid, grass burrs, cow pies and jagged field rocks) we could jump off the edge and land in a soft pile of warm sand. The worst part, undoubtedly, the cow patties everywhere. You really had to pay attention 'cause man! those things were big, gross and nasty (and we usually had bare feet). If you've never stepped in one, I can't describe the awful combination of crunchy, warm sluggishness. If you have, then I don't need to say another word. There's nothing like it.

We always raided my grandmother's kitchen before we went to the sand pit. Jello molds were a major score. Deli containers, an old set of avocado, mustard and pumpkin colored salt and pepper shakers, plastic spoons, picnic cups, and bowls were the tools of our trade that served as castle building supplies and digging instruments. We had tunnels to excavate and some days, entire bodies to bury. We were busy.

We built the grandest fortresses. Inevitably, around the same time that our creativity and absorption really took hold to produce a truly awe-inspiring landscape, one or several of my grandfather's too-large pack of inbreed, dirty, usually-wet-from-their-expedition-into-the-lake mutt, hounds would find us.

It was as if they had been on their own expedition that day. A sort of scavenger hunt that included, chasing rabbits, checking on the neighbors dog, romping through the tall grass thicket in the back of the park, cooling off in the shallow reeds of the lake and finding our where we were. Their final coup de grace - trampling our castle into an unrecognizable pile of upturned buckets, fallen turrets, collapsed caves and broken bridges. They were so happy! Dripping, tail-wagging, barking, slobbering beasts.