My husband’s family owns a tree farm in Wisconsin, a large amount of land in a small town called Kellner. The Farm, as it’s known, is a magical, special treasure. A place that’s hard to find in these times. There are no T.V.’s at the Farm, it’s not wireless, and there are only a few actual bedrooms, and those are claimed first by the Yodi (as the oldest generation are affectionately called) and those with the youngest babes. Everyone else sleeps in the attic’s open dormer, or out in the barn- a converted barn that holds enough bunk beds for the boys and a few brave girls.
I just got back from a weekend at the Farm. This weekend’s theme was “Greek Fest.” On Saturday night we ate lamb with cucumber dressing and feta cheese and tomatoes and olives with pita bread. We wore togas and participated in our own version of “Greek Olympics”; young and old competed in challenges called “Dizzy Mummy” and “Bite Me.” Past themes of “Pirates and Rum” and “70’s Disco” have yielded similarly epic costumes and tables of food. As my mind falls back over the weekend images flash forward. Most involve laughter and happiness and lots and lots of food.
I can see a group of people around the large table on the inside porch, ages ranging from 8 year old Aubrey to 75 year old Byron. Their hands pound the table as one person flashes bunny ears and then a quick scratch of the head. Someone else scratches their head and then shoots an imaginary arrow. Bales of laughter erupt as the arrow receiver’s hands twitch and convulse, unable to think of another signal quickly enough as he loses this round of “Indian Signals.”
I see a table full of food made by many different hands. Amy’s Grecian Squares, Jill’s flaming cheese, Andy’s famous Orzo salad, the leg of lamb Dave spent all evening grilling, bowls of pita triangles and platters of tomatoes, cucumbers, feta cheese, and olives. This table is weighed down by too much food to be consumed by that 26 people standing around it, waiting to dig in.
I see little Brett, a peanut of a 6-year with an impish grin, clad in a green toga he has worn faithfully all night. He bravely agrees to compete in “Dizzy Mummy” and soon he is off spinning like a top, wrapping toilet paper around himself as he spins faster and faster until he tumbles over dizzily giggling.
And perhaps my most favorite moment of the weekend was one that I almost missed. Jim, recently retired from a job he’d worked at most his adult life, comes in the house calling for “Toots.” He grabs his bride by the hand and leads her outside where I can just barely make out their figures, dancing on the porch in the moonlight.
These images stand out in my mind because they are perfect snapshots of what is so wonderful about the farm. The farm is a place where generations gather. Where grandparents play games with children and no one is too mature to make a fool of them self. It’s a haven where meals are events and emails fly around for weeks before divvying up dishes and drinks. It’s a play land where kids are treasured and encouraged to be kids. You can’t be bored at the farm when there are is a go kart named Blue to be driven and a trampoline for hopping and always someone your age to play with. The farm is special because families enjoy each other and marriages last the test of time. It’s rare and somewhat mysterious to me, but divorce has not touched this clan. There are 3 sets of grandparents and 8 sets of married couples- all of which are still together. I don’t know any other family that is like this. Being surrounded by this kind of commitment makes me feel secure. It gives me hope and helps me trust. My husband grew up with a family that valued commitment.
The Farm makes me thankful. I’m thankful Monster will grow up with a place to be a kid. I’m thankful he’ll learn how to chop wood and pee on a tree outside. I’m thankful he’ll have lots of adoring older cousins to dote on him and some his own age to explore with him. I’m thankful for a rich history of people who love each other. Of husbands who stay for the long haul and don’t trade up for a younger and prettier wife. I’m thankful for a group of people that enjoy sitting around a fire together. Who choose a weekend without their blackberries or video games or television shows in favor of silly games with toga wearing cousins and good tunes. They don’t just choose that kind of a weekend, they very much look forward to it.
