Thursday, January 22, 2015


Gravestone of the founding father of my family home, Jenckes Farm.  
As I was flying from Mexico to New Jersey last week, my mother sent me a series of photographs.  The photos were of deep snow drifts, barbed wire holding boundaries tin he forest, trees naked and stoic in the winter afternoon light.  This photograph I have been returning to.  This stone.  I know its resting spot in the grave yard at the top of the pasture.  I have sat in its quiet solace, I have revered the spirit of my great, great, great, great, great, grandfather.  I have offered thanks for the work he put into the land my family calls home.  My father saw this stone on a walk he took before my brother was born.  Under the snow, this stone reads, "a patriot of the revolution."  My brother is named after the man who lies beneath this stone.  As I was on my flight, to the cold after dashing through the surf grinning in the warmth of the Mexican sun and basking in the light of my friends love, I was thankful to have such a solid reminder of who I am, where I come from.  I love to explore and find this earth in all her glory but I am most thankful for my home, the soil that holds my roots and the people who cultivate its heart.

No comments:

Post a Comment