Ghosts of years past

My heart is often tugged to drive down an unexplored road...turn left when I should be turning right...finally sneak up to an abandoned, lonely farmhouse that sits idle yet another year. Places have history, just like people. If only walls could talk. Farmhouses outlive family after family and hear the secrets, see hidden lives, and provide a refuge from weather, strangers, and the dark world outside. This weather-worn barn catches my attention every time I drive past and I cannot help but stare, hoping that some day soon, it will reveal its past, its tightly held secrets. Could it have been part of the Underground Railroad? Did it hear of the horrors of the Civil War? Did it once shelter magnificent work horses that helped tame the wilds of Wisconsin? Was the old rock foundation built from stones found in the fields? Did the door see Indians searching for food?

And what of this old, decrepit, decaying farmhouse? The lush summer heat and soaking rains help the undergrowth and surrounding trees become a luscious jungle, hiding the sadness of its lonely gaze and doors exposed to the elements. But in the winter, its empty, hollow eyes draw me in and again, cause me to drive slowly, blocking out any chatter around me, while I dream of yesteryear and long to know its secrets. There is beauty in its obvious age...in the well-worn, cracked siding, in the greying windows, in the spooky beckoning stairs to the mysterious second floor. What is its story? Why was it abandoned? Where did its family go and how could they leave her, this old and aged house? Perhaps someday I will know its secrets...to be able to reverently remember families that worked the ground, sent their children to a nearby one-room schoolhouse, and huddled around a black cookstove to stay warm. But even if I don't, I am glad that I took the road less traveled and braved the snow drifts to meet these ghosts of years past firsthand.