|
Aug. 3, 1977 at 2:15 p.m. I turned off the T.V. and disconnected it as was my usual procedure. I paused at the door, looked back over the living room and kitchen and took a quick glance into the bedroom adjacent to the outside door. Satisfied that all was in order, I closed and locked the door.
On Aug. 4, 1977 at 12:45 p.m. I put the key in the lock, not noticing that it had been tampered with, opened the door and stepped inside. A quick glance into the bedroom and I knew something was wrong! The throw rug by the bed was wrinkled and drawers to the dressers and the chest of drawers were partly open. I stepped into the living room. The space where the davenport belonged was empty! Not taking time to survey the entire scene, quickly I went to the phone. My first thought was, "Call Earl." We have been married 50 years and always in a crisis my first thought has been, "Call Earl." Because of his illness we moved from our farm to a house in a small town two miles away. Somehow we had not been able to pull up the roots that had grown so deep in our many years on that little farm. So we had furnished the house in town, took only part of our belongings with us and moved., But our hearts were still in that place that had been home to us so long. For years people had questioned our wisdom. Why would two schoolteachers want a home at the end of a road, surrounded by timber with only birds and animals for close neighbors? Although only 2 miles from a major highway and less than a mile from a busy county road, our friends referred to it as " Living in the sticks." That is exactly why we loved it. Surrounded by nature, away from crowds, yet near enough to all the things modern living deems necessary, we found contentment. We had practically carved those 40 acres out of the wilderness. When we bought it in 1934, only a path, which had at one time been a horse and buggy road, led to it. The soil was thin and unproductive. At the time we bought the first 20 acres, I didn't see any possibility of making a home in these primitive surroundings but Earl envisioned its possibilities. We built a one-room cabin from native lumber. We cut the scrub timber and fenced the boundary lines. We nursed the soil and hacked out a road to the main road. Day in, day out we worked with our 3 year-old son at our side. Those poor misguided schoolteachers! The sympathy of our friends stung us. We grew accustomed to such remarks as - How are you getting along living in that shack? Did the hoot owls get you last night? Walking that mud road to your car parked on the rock road so you can get to your schools is ridiculous. Why don't you move to town? We turned deaf ears on their taunts. So year after year we plodded on making progress and improvements. An old country schoolhouse was moved in and remodeled into a house. Eventually, electric and phone services were established. A water sys- tem and bathroom facilities were installed. The mud road was rocked. And then eventually came retirement for which this lovely, peaceful place was being readied. But illness struck and we could no longer stay nor could we completely give up our home. Now we had to satisfy ourselves with daily trips there. Then the time came when I went alone most of the time, as Earl was not able to go with me. So that day in August I opened the door, not only to the house but to the realization that it will be a struggle to maintain my inherent belief in the goodness and honesty of people. In my mind keeps reappearing the image of persons sorting through things that were treasures to us, picking and choosing the things they wanted and dis- carding others. Things we had spent a lifetime acquiring, not for monetary value but because they fit a purpose in our lives and home, for them became a treasure hunt. It is understandable why they took the antique lamps, the old wall telephone, the pieces of silver, furniture, the T.V. and salable articles too numerous to list. But of what possible value could an old quilt pieced by my mother-in-law many years ago be to anyone? It was in poor condition. And of what use could a Granny Square afghan crocheted by the arthritic hands of my 80 year-old sister be to anyone but me? It was made as an act of affection, not for perfection. My parents' old mantel clock had not run for years. Parts of it were missing. It was of no value except to me, yet they took it. What of the davenport? It meant a great deal to me because I bought it with money my mother gave me before she died 16 years ago. I had cared for it lovingly. They might have been able to sell it for a few dollars. In my mind I keep seeing the activity. " I'll take that chair," she says. Yes, I'm certain a woman or per- haps more than one, was present. "Oh, good, an old kerosene lamp, I always wanted one." "No, not that chair, I have no place for it and it won't sell." "Sure, I can use all the bedding you can find." On and on goes the picking, choosing, discarding. You should have known better than to leave things there. "What do you expect?" was the callous comment of a friend. I ask myself that question. "What do I expect?" It is difficult to answer. For one thing I expect to be able to keep the things I treasure. I expect the peace and tranquility of that little farm to afford a place of safety for me and my family. Is this too much? We are advised by our friends to sell the farm. Why should we be forced to sell the home we so lovingly made because some people felt free to invade it at will? The hundreds of memories associated with it are reason enough not to sell. A little boy exploring the timber, wading in the creek in summer, skating on it in winter, climbing trees, hunting rocks and Indian arrow heads and doing a million other things that little boys do. Now a grown man he knows and loves every square inch of that land! Another little boy, our grandson, now does the same things his father once did. Is it possible in another generation still another little boy will play on that land? As society searches for the remedy to the prevailing pattern of crime, which includes robbing, and intimidating the elderly we will stand firm. The rustic old barn may fold under the ravages of age, the proud old cottonwood tree towering high over other trees in the timber may fall victim to age and disease, physical changes may alter the appearance of the land but adversities will not destroy our dream that future generations of our family will stand on the hilltop overlooking this once primitive setting and say with pride, This land is my land. |