Writing

Granny’s Farm

Posted on by Lauren

Today was a most difficult day for our family.

Today we said our final goodbye to Granny’s farm.

My in-laws home was so much more than just any-old-house.

Designed and built by my father-in-law, Bill, their retirement home rests upon over 50 acres of land on the banks of Lake Mattamuskeet, a National Wildlife Refuge found 30 miles from the nearest stop light. 

The land is full of migratory birds, black bears, and deer, to name a few. Rich, black soil supports vibrant family-owned farmland as far as the eye can see. 

My mother-in-law, Betty, grew up in her grandmother’s house next door. They didn’t have electricity until she was 12 years old and used a horse before they purchased a car.

Bill was raised with his large family across the Lake. Ten years apart in age, they met shortly after Betty graduated from high school and the rest is history. 

They moved to Chesapeake, VA to give their four children more opportunities and moved right back to retire in Fairfield the second my husband graduated high school more than 30 years ago. 

Bill passed away in the home when our oldest, Aurora, was only 4 months old. Betty has remained, ever since. 

Yes, this house and its land was so much more than any-old home. 

It’s where our little family spent every single Easter and Thanksgiving. 

This is where our girls picked figs, peaches and pears in the Summer and grapes, apples and pecans in the Fall. 

This is where they learned to ride a 3-wheeler, shoot a gun, and befriend a domesticated deer named Jane Doe. 

This is the place my children bottle fed lambs and calves, where we roasted oysters over open fire and dyed easter eggs. 

Fairfield Methodist Church is where all four of our girls were baptized. It’s where they listened to their Granny play the piano and received treats for the children’s sermon. 

When I close my eyes, I feel the soft wind brush my hair. The air is filled with the scent of ripe figs so visceral, I can taste them. I hear the crunch of the pecan hulls underneath my feet and soak in the stunning sunset over the pier my husband built in the lake. 

Yes, this home is more than just any-old-house. 

It’s a symphony of senses. 

It’s a holder of some of our family’s most precious memories that we will carry with us for a lifetime. 

Today we said our final goodbye to Granny’s farm. 

Forever we will say thank you. 

The Greatest Gift

Posted on by Lauren

“You need to tell her. You need to get into your car right now, go over there and tell her.” my husband encouraged. 

It was the eve of my birthday. We were on our front porch and I had just read aloud a letter I’d found while cleaning out my father’s condo. Apparently, he had kept a file for each of his children. In mine I found every report card, parent/teacher conference record and a collection of letters. 

What a treasure trove of memories this was for me to dive deeply into. 

But the one dated December 11, 1987 left me breathless.

If you’ve followed my blog, then you know the story of my beginning. I am the illegitimate love- child of a long-term affair. My parents worked together but no one suspected, not even after I was born. My older sisters, who also worked with my parents, knew me as “Pam’s daughter” but did not learn I was their half-sister until I was three. 

My mother was a powerful business woman. She was charismatic, magnetic, and inspiring. She meant much to many across the entire country but it was me, who wanted her attention the most. 

I spent so many years of my life resentful and angry for the time she’d spent building her career in place of a closer relationship with me. Now that I have a daughter very similar to me, when I was a child, I understand how challenging it must have been to forge that relationship. I didn’t make it easy. 

I finished this letter and instantaneously, my anger evaporated leaving nothing but remorse in its wake. 

I desperately wanted to call her and tell her how sorry I was for failing to recognize the love she had held for me my entire life. I was so busy focusing on her shortcomings that, as a result, I completely missed her devotion and steadfast love. 

My mother advocated for me. She encouraged my father to maintain a relationship with me not just in this letter but in other letters I found in the file: inviting him to conferences, recording my thoughts to him pen-to-paper when I could not yet write. 

How could I ever thank her enough for that gift? The gift of the presence of my father? 

What if I had found this after her death and had never apologized? 

What if my father hadn’t kept these letters for me to one day find?

But he did and she’s still here and my husband willed me to go to her. 

I couldn’t get a hold of her until the next day but when she answered, I started by telling her how much I loved her followed immediately by how sorry I was for remaining angry with her for so long. I thanked her for loving me anyway, in spite of my anger. For never giving up on me. Not then and not now. 

It was my birthday. 

And it was the greatest gift I’ve ever received. 

Love, forgiveness, and gratitude. 

Mr. Adler

Posted on by Lauren

“It never occurred to me until writing this essay that “normal” father-daughter relationships do not develop over talking in a restaurant.”

And herein lies the value of Language Arts.

It makes me wonder- were others lucky enough to have a teacher challenge them with the hard questions?

What happened to you?

Where is important to you?

Why do you write?

I attended an all-girls boarding school, whereupon 70% of the faculty, including my Language Arts teacher and his wife, lived on campus.  

It was late, after dinner, when I witnessed him reading my very personal essay.  It was both terrifying and exhilarating to speak my truth.

“My second chance lives with my future children,” I wrote “and their relationship with me and their father.  I can use the lessons that I have learned from my family situation as a guide to how I will choose to live mine.  For now, I will continue to meet my father on the corner of Shirley and Colley Ave. for some beef with broccoli and a two hour talk about how my life is going.”  

I was seventeen.  

And 21 years later, that’s exactly what I do. 

I use the lessons I learn, through writing, to choose how I live mine.  

Camille Vaughan Photography
Karl Adler

Snail Mail

Posted on by Lauren

In the age of virtual learning and online shopping it seems, already, so archaic.  

Is that what also makes it so special?

Or is it just me?

The Written Word. 

The feel of paper. 

The emotion in handwriting. 

I received a letter today, just for letter’s sake. 

No holiday or event to celebrate. 

Just a letter for letter’s sake.  

And upon reading it, I felt like I had taken the freshest breath of air in a long time.

Normalcy.

Writing, just to write!

Touching base, just to check in. 

We’re busy people and letters are effort. 

But boy are they appreciated for that very reason. 

Snail Mail. 

Gone, but not forgotten.