HOW DID I GET HERE?
MERLE DILLON, PART I
Nineteen years ago we chanced upon an old farmhouse that would become our home. It sits at the end of a 900 foot tree-lined lane of gravel and hard packed soil, with just enough furrows to keep the curious at bay. It is a lovely old house with deep windowsills, original hardwood floors burnished a deep auburn, and a stone walled cellar with a dirt floor that remains dry even in the heaviest of rains. It is full of creaking, crooked floors and squeaky doors and is perfect. The house sits on two and a half acres that a hundred years ago were part of a bigger plot of land which was farmed for tomatoes and was home to workhorses, a property rich in local history. The land is fringed with black walnut, apple, cherry, and oak trees, ancient wisteria vines three inches in diameter, wild blackberry and rose bushes, and a profusion of honeysuckle. Behind our house is another old homestead and field making it feel as if we have a small oasis of peace here tucked away from the ever growing chaotic world right around the corner.
We purchased our home in early summer and my partner set to work clearing some of the brush that was encroaching upon the back of the house. I was an army of one protesting the destruction of a lone cedar tree, standing in front of the tree daring my partner to take us both down. The tree still stands proudly in the corner of the yard now over two stories tall, and it is adorned each winter with fairy lights, multiple extension cords guiding the way the way to where it reigns over the open field.
Upon moving in we discovered a small feral cat colony that was sharing our land. We used to joke they were an unknown feature in the sale. The matriarch of the colony had been living outdoors for over a decade and apparently having multiple litters each year. We eventually rounded up all the females to be spayed and with the potential for a huge population explosion under control the cats of the colony went on to live out their years here. I once read this line somewhere, “Cats don’t belong to people, they belong to a place.” That was certainly true here and the cats loved every aspect of the land just as we do, from the trees and hiding places to the sunny spots out in the open. My daughter was 13 when we moved here. Loving and caring for feral cats and understanding the necessity of treating all animals humanely led her to volunteer for a rescue group in the city when she moved away.
Everything this land holds has given us so much joy, enriched our lives and given us knowledge of the wild firsthand. We witness turkeys returning with their poults each summer, babies starting out as little balls of fluff barely visible as they appear to roll across the field with their parents searching for food. At first we count the poults excited when there are upwards of twelve, then we stop counting as the days progress for fear of not reaching the desired number. Mother Nature can be cruel. It’s amazing when the turkeys are full grown and we watch these prehistoric looking birds fly up in the trees to roost, landing on thin branches that seem unable to hold their weight. We get to watch a newborn doe from our kitchen window suckling its mother as she forages for berries and young tender shoots of plants. This year I learned that the tulip bulbs that I planted in fall made a particularly tasty meal but I couldn’t bring myself to scare the deer away. We laugh at how plump groundhogs become being vegetarians and marvel that they fit into the myriad of crisscrossing tunnels under our field. We see foxes with their kits, their playful barks and yips amusing us and their shrieks at night giving us shivers. My favorite sound of all is the mating calls of the great horned owls that return early every winter, the male sending his call in a low pitch and the female responding in a higher more delicate voice.
Our home has of course seen its share of sorrow. The devastating breakup with my partner left me to reevaluate my life, but what remained clear in my mind was the love of my house and home. I did some traveling to distract me from my life situation but was always anxious to return to my old farmhouse. I saw the Pacific Ocean from flower topped cliffs in California and the indescribable beautiful beaches of Hawaii. I visited Joshua Tree National Park with its eerie but serene landscape and Montana with its never ending sky. My favorite trips were to Colorado and the steadfast Rocky Mountains. I carried home with me the memories of snow capped mountains, fields of wildflowers, the golden barrenness and rust colored grasses of the prairie. Everything meant something and was connected and I began recognizing vibrant colors and intricate designs in the landscape of my own home. I was taking photographs of everything, storing the colors in my mind and on paper to use over and over in my artwork. My favorite photographic subject has become the sunrise from my driveway as it makes its way over the treetops. That view never gets old.
And it seems all things come back to this piece of land. My daughter has returned home with her husband and he now experiences the same love we have of a place.
As I sit outside enjoying the last croaking of tree frogs as fall approaches I am sad to think what the future may hold. A nearby buck snorts as if voicing a similar sentiment. All that we love here is at risk of being lost. The homestead behind us has fallen into the hands of a greedy developer. At a zoning board meeting, there is talk of apartments, a strip mall, an unnecessary access road and a clubhouse being constructed behind and next to me. There will be light pollution, noise pollution and major changes to the area. The lawyer for the developer has offered me a six foot fence as some sort of appeasement, but now has decided it would be easier for me to have one built myself. Years ago the developer sent a real estate agent to my house to try to purchase my home. The offer was ridiculously low and they weren’t pleased when I turned it down. They were very sure they could obtain my land to use in their plans. I was reminded of a television series I was watching as a child of about 8 in which a farmer was being forced to relocate for a construction project. I remember being upset that the family seemed to have no recourse. Has this stuck in my mind all these years because I was foretelling my future? My son reminds me of a line from the movie No Country for Old Men, “You can’t stop what’s coming,” but he presses me at the same time to not give up. A complete stranger from the zoning board meeting advises me to contact the state about the possibility of endangered species being present and to demand an ecological study. I contact a preservation group hoping they will get involved and offer me some help with sorting through paperwork for posting sightings of bald eagles and box turtles. My neighbors encourage me and say they are behind me and know I can do this. In the meantime, the developer claims he wants to build something beautiful for the community. All I see is the community they will be destroying, the wildlife that will be disrupted and displaced, and I wonder how I got here and hope that I still have the strength to fight.
MERLE DILLON is a writer, artist, and mother to all cats.