My father was rebuilding the old civil war road. It crossed through my town, over my hill, my farm. By the time I came around it had all grown over. It began with small weeds-what most people consider a nuisance. But to the land...it brings it back. That old road, which had been cleared and built by soldiers and volunteers, filled itself in with weeds-then brush and undergrowth, then trees. And my Dad was clearing them again. I'm not exactly sure why. So we could access more of the family land. maybe.
Whatever the reason, I loved it. I loved trekking into the hills with him. He'd spend the day sweating. I'd spend it exploring and grinning ear to ear the whole time. Every inch of my exposed skin dusty and dirty.
We most often took the old farm-all down. It had an old wooden platform hooked to the back- where you'd connect the wagons. All the tools were on it. Sometimes I'd sit there- watching the world fad into the distance as we made our way deeper into the woods.
Most often, I'd ride up with Dad. That's where he'd tell the stories from. Yelling over the loud engine. Occasionally ducking out of the way of branches as they whipped back toward us after getting caught on the exhaust pipes. He'd point out old cellar holes and tell me who had lived there. Or he'd help me puzzle piece the layout- barn here, house there, pump house, water well.
I think he'd stop the tractor and begin working next to those once-lived-in-homes just for me. He knew I loved to touch and feel the stones, remembering a story in a different way. He knew that sometimes I'd find a spoon or a bottle packed with dirt, in the dirt and it'd be like I found a buried treasure.
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