So let me put it out there right from the beginning: I did a lot of crying this summer.

The reasons for that will unfold over the next few posts as I tell the story of a real inflection point in the life of our family. I hope you’ll hang with me in this, as I’ve been intentionally quiet about a lot of it. I didn’t want to force something too soon and some of it is yet to be revealed; but I know that a lot of my processing (and ultimate healing) is going to come just by writing about it.

Be assured, though, that the ending(?) is good and all is as it should be. And it started simply enough with the indulgence of a little one-on-one time with Julia.

A June sun had come up over the eastern fields on a family weekend at the farm. The beans and corn were well established by now; but they were still low enough to be a shocking green contrast against the rich burnt umber of the rain fed soil.

I had come down to make coffee and take in the warmth of the morning on the back porch. As I sat there in my pajamas, Julia came out and joined me there for a bit, enjoying the silence together before the day started.

It wasn’t long, though, before she got up and motioned toward the barn. “Golf cart,” she said; and I knew it was time for a little adventure. So still in our pajamas, we got some shoes on and headed to the barn. By the way, there’s something great about a neighborhood that doesn’t give a hang if they ride up on you out and about in your ‘jams – that’s real freedom!

The summer after my mom’s stroke, Dad got a secondhand golf cart to get her around the property. It turned out to be one of the best investments we’d made. They spent many happy hours together riding through the woods and visiting her flower beds. And even in the fog and confusion of her injury, Mom always seemed more present when she was communing with the land.

Fifteen years later, a golf cart ride had become one of Julia’s favorite rituals out at the farm, and it had to happen at least a couple of times during a typical weekend. She meandered out to the barn and stood by the pines while I pulled out the golf cart. Then she hopped on and we were off, the electric motor silent enough to sneak up on a few deer that had stolen out from the woods to help themselves to the bean shoots in the field.

But in the last year or so, she’s added other components to the trip; one of them being throwing rocks into the creek! It’s actually a drainage ditch between two fields, but she doesn’t care. It’s mostly a place that she can toss a stone and hear a satisfying “plop” when she gets it through the thick sedge and actually into the water. Julia chooses her stones with great care and sometimes gets fancy with a “no look” toss (watch yourself when that happens).

She could literally do that for hours, but I’m sure the local farmers don’t want us to dam up their drainage ditch. And sometimes even Julia needs to head back and have breakfast.

But the ritual doesn’t stop there.

Once I finally have her redirected from throwing stones, she wants to run down the lane and have me chase behind in the golf cart. “Run,” she says, pointing back toward the house. And off she goes in that inimitable gait of a girl who’s still getting mastery over her gross motor skills but can still outrun me when my knees are tweaky.

She finally tires out (usually after 50 yards or so) and wants to climb back into the golf cart. Then we enjoy a quiet ride back, taking in the warmth of the sun and reveling in the luxurious, moist green of the farm on a fine June morning.

That’s the routine; and that day was just like we have always done – but this time it was different.

I didn’t understand the gravity of the moment until I grabbed this shot of her happily running past the tool shed to the house. That marvelous place of safety and acceptance – the focal point that had drawn our family together for over fifty years.

I stood there, taking in that moment and watched as Julia made her way up the steps to the porch and disappeared into the kitchen. And I stepped into the quiet of the barn and sobbed. Hard. It was as if the spectre of what was to come had ambushed me right in the place I had known so well.

Why?

We were selling the farm.

Check out the next part of the story here.