A few years ago, we decided to take a road trip out east to visit friends in New York and Connecticut. We had to take I-80 East and thought that would be the perfect time to spend the night in the Pennsylvania town that my grandmother lived in and go out to the farm. In this post I talked about spending time at the dairy farm of Irene, the woman who cleaned for my grandmother.
We toured the town, went by my grandmother’s old house and some of my “stomping grounds”, then I tried to find my way out to the farm. I had not told them that I was coming – I had seen Joe’s wife, Sherry on Facebook, but wasn’t fluent with it so really had no way to get ahold of her.
Back To The Farm
We ventured out into the winding roads and rolling hills of the amazing Pennsylvania countryside. It felt so familiar, and I thought I knew where I was going—but I did not. We stopped to ask another farmer who said, of course he knew them and directed us to the right road. After driving for a bit…yes, this felt right; it smelled right. We were almost there.
Then in the distance I saw the barn on the right and the house right across the road. The old washhouse was gone (I reference the wash house in this post). We pulled up and by some miracle sitting in a car in front of the barn were Joe, Floyd’s son, and his wife Sherry. They looked curious but after a quick reminder of who I was there were embraces and lots of catching up. They had been on their way to a family party, but just stopped by the barn for something quick. It was truly serendipity that they were there at the same time we pulled up.
Not Our First Magical Coincidence
This magical coincidence has happened once before with them. Back in 1999 after my grandmother’s funeral, I made the entire family come out to the farm. Irene had died years earlier, but I knew Floyd was still alive. I had half expected him to come to the funeral but didn’t see him. We got out to the farm about 4:00pm which I recalled was about the time of the afternoon milking.
At street level the barn doors held hay and other equipment, so we needed to go around the side and downstairs to the main part where all the cows came in for milking. There presiding over the evening milking was Floyd, well into his 80’s, his son Joe and two grandsons. He was not surprised to see me at all. He said in his quiet way, “I’m sorry about your grandmother. It’s good to see you.” He knew I’d come.
Over my summers at the farm, it was Floyd that I spent most of my time with. Irene would leave early in the morning to work cleaning people’s houses and I’d be left to hang out with Floyd. I think back now at how generous and kind he was to entertain this 12-year-old city kid. He was a jokester and had a wonderful smile. I’d help with the early morning milking; we’d come back and have breakfast of just picked eggs and cereal (with fresh milk—the best!). Then it’d be time to go bail hay – I’d ride on the side of the tractor on the fender above one of the giant tires and hop off to pick up the occasional bail that fell off the pile. Floyd’s son Joe was in his late teens, and he’d be there working too, but mostly kept to himself. I can still smell the fresh cut hay in the summer sun. We’d come in from bailing and Floyd would watch his “program”, but mostly take a nap (with a gentle, reassuring snore). He had a stash of full-size Snickers, Milky Way, and Three Musketeers bars in the cabinet by the TV and he told me to help myself. Pure heaven.
While he slept, I’d sit on the screened porch and look out at the hills and the wash house by the creek. The two-story, two room wash house had been the original homestead on the farm. Floyd was born in that house. At some point he and Irene told me I could have it when I got older. I think they meant it as a joke, but I took it seriously and as I sat looking out at it and the hills beyond, I would draft multiple floor plans for how I would renovate it.
Sitting on that porch in the summer heat, drafting plans, I would dream about what my life would be like when I was grown up. In my imagination, I would be a stewardess, which would get me back to Pennsylvania frequently and I’d spend weekends here, in my wash house at one of my favorite places on earth.
I wasn’t raised with much religion, but when things like this happen, I have to believe in some force in the universe. This force that just lets you know it’s there and that none of this is an accident; You are exactly where you’re supposed to be, and your life is unfolding exactly how it’s supposed to. The key is to recognize these moments and string them together – and accept them with gratitude for the beautiful gifts that they are.
WETSU! WETSU!
XO JT
