I will go back to the farm.  I will breathe in the sweet smell of Aunt Joanna's flowers, the scent of a wet dog named Abbey, and the overwhelming odors of the cattle herds down the hill, grazing in their pen between the house and the highway.  i will recall the sights and sounds of Route 81, the growl of 18-wheelers drowning out any sounds of chirping birds, barking dogs, or the wind rustling the leaves and tall grass. 

And yet, it is strangely peaceful.  To escape the noise of the highway, I simply climb over the hill in the back of the house, scale the fence, and roam about the rolling field.  Out here, I can take a book, find a clean spot of grass, sit and enjoy the beauty around me. 

The house itself has a strange eeriness to it.  It is a massive mansion that was originally built as an inn.  In the grand, seemingly endless hallway, Uncle Billy tells me stories about the windowpane signed by Thomas Jefferson.  I run to the end of the red carpet to touch the icy panels that border the rickety window. 

I turn to Uncle Billy, who follows at a slower pace. 

"Show me where it is!" I yelp excitedly.  We just learned about Thomas Jefferson at school. 

As he take a seat on one of the antique mahogany benches lining the hallway, Billy breathes deeply and wipes his big, hand across his leathery face. 

"A visitor swindled that pane years ago, on their way out of the valley, Jan," he says regretfully.  He tells me more of the story and bits of others, to explain some of the history of his home.  Then he stands.  I can only see his tall legs, clothed in coarse wool.  He towers above me, reaching out his hand to lead me downstairs to the kitchen where the family was gathered.

I remember those hands.  Compared to my own hands - tiny, smooth, hardly weathered by child's play - his were foreign, even frightening.  They were worn hands, leathery like his face.  He was getting old and creased; the work in the fields had particularly affected his hands.  The fingernails were large and flat, blackened by the grime caught in the corners where fingernail met flesh.  They were not out of place in this house.  It was an ancient place, smelling of mothballs and musty furniture.  But his hands.  They embodied the farm. 


The carefree atmosphere of the days before my youth were gone.  The house welcomed me, with smells of flowers in summertime and pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving.  But there was always an air of unease.  All was not right in that house on the hill.  Even as a child, I sensed something amiss.  Perhaps it was Billy's hands.  Perhaps it was the buzz of the highway.  Perhaps it was the words of my father, cautioning us that we should stay near to the house. 

The place he had known as a child had changed.  He once was able to wander freely, enjoying clean air and peaceful quiet.  Now, he had to warn his own children of the new dangers.  Cars barreling down the county road. Barbed wire cutting our hands.  Dangerous electric fenses.  And of course, the highway. 

It was as Joni Mitchell describes, "...the hotel room was quite high up so in the distance I could see the blue Pacific Ocean.  I walked over to the balcony, and there was the picture book scenery, palm trees swaying in the breeze and all.  Then I looked down and there was this ugly concrete car park in the hotel grounds.  I thought, 'They paved paradise and put up a parking lot...'"  When I ran to the end of the red carpet in the upstairs hallway, my imagination saw a rolling countryside, dotted with trees and the lines that the plough makes when harvesting the hay.  The view I actually overlooked was one of cars, trucks and busses, weaving through the lanes, traversing the countryside -- cutting through the front yard. 

I understand why Billy seemed to so tired when he explained that Thomas Jefferson's signature had disappeared.  For him, that window symbolized everything he lost throughout the years.  They had worn him down.  They challenged him in every way possible, mainly through property taxes.  As he became older, he stayed strong in mind, but age and cancer took over.  He could not meaure up to the standards the government set. He could not harvest all the land he owned.  Even with two sons' help, the money flow was just not sufficient.  Few private farms survived then.  The family felt like his was being forced from his grip, no matter how tightly he held. 

His hands were the work he put into his farm.  The tough skin was caused by the stress of the world, the government, visitors.  These hands were the tangible amidst the fog of confusion. They were his struggle against sickness.  They were love for his family, his house and his land. 



When the cancer finally took him, we gathered on the hilltop behind the house where the first rays of sunlight hit and where the moon beams brightly. 

Earlier that day, I roamed about the house seeking the same lighthearted excitement I had experienced not a few years back.  When I turned a corner, there were my father and grandfather, hunched over on the landing; in front of the now unused front door.  I smelled smoke and asked what they were doing.  They turned to me with ashen faces, tears making tiny streams and gathering in a waterfall at the chin.  Behind them, I saw the ghostly remains of Billy's bones.

We stood hand in hand around the grave on this favorite hill of his in the cow pastures, remembering what Billy went through in his life.  I remembered Billy's hands.  The images of his cane-like legs and a blackened hand flashed through my mind as we paid our respects.

A frail wooden fence now surrounds him with a cross rising up into the blue sky.  We go to visit him on occasion.  Now, he is what Aunt Joanna lives for.  She carries on what Billy began.  She works with the eldest son to keep the farm working and the antique shop running.  At night, she dreams occasionally of being buried up on the hill next to Billy in peace.

That house is a home to many memories, and welcomes all types of people.  On the front landing, passersby set down their luggage from their wearied arms.  Perhaps Jefferson stood there, dreaming of his plans for the nation.  Civil War soldiers may have found refuge in the inn, or in the fields.  On that landing, Uncle Billy was cremated.  He, like so many before him, fought long and hard for equity amidst a world of injustice, and came to rest on that wooden porch. 

(this ending is in the original, but as I have edited it, I've decided to omit it, considering it a rather corny, with a tacked-on feeling, and I believe it came from the fact that the writing assignment required the inclusion of two quotations. Criticism welcome)

In the house resides many conflicting feelings and desires.  Its peace and solitude is a reminder to fight for justice, and not release what is most meaningful, no matter how hard the government or society tries to rip it away.  For, as in the Prince of Egypt, "A lake of gold in the desert sand is less than a cool fresh spring.  And to one lost sheep, a shepherd boy is great than the richest king.  If a man loses everything he owns, has he truly lost his worth?  Or is it the beginning of a new and brighter birth?  No life can escape being blown about by the winds of change and chance.  And though you never know all the steps, you must learn to join the dance..." Some things are more important than others, which is something that the government cannot always see.  Billy learned to accept what the world had to offer him, and working through it, joining the dance of life and making it his own. 

"We have come too far.  We won't turn around..."
(Songs of Justice by Clare Sherley)