I have always delighted in exploring deserted places, and my favorite such place was a dilapidated homestead on Afton Mountain, near my grandparent's farm. After being ravaged long ago by a fire the house had been abandoned, and nature had made great progress towards reclaiming it for her own. Bordered by the forest at its back, and an overgrown garden at its side, the house sat alone at the top of its hill, slowly disintegrating.

When, as a child, I first discovered it, I was frightened of the house, thinking that its empty windows were blank eyes staring at me from within its broken face. I crept up to the doorway and peeked inside, and then ran frantically into the woods where I felt the trees and rocks would keep me safe from harm.

I knew the woods well, knew where the lichen grew on each tree trunk, where and when each wildflower would bloom, which part of the creek would freeze over in the winter, and the voices of the birds and small animals who called the woods their home. The ground was thickly carpeted by leaves, rustling as I walked over them, and the soft gurgling of the creek rushing over its bed of rocks kept harmony with the wind singing through the trees. A sense of peace filled me as I wandered amongst the trees, my solitude shared only by the wild creatures, the marks of humanity nowhere to be seen.

After visiting my favorite places in the woods I went to the garden. Once carefully cultivated, it was now heavily overgrown; the domesticated plants were almost indistinguishable from their wild cousins. In one corner Concord grape vines grew, using a large mulberry tree as their arbor. The fading blooms of daffodils were being replaced by black-eyed susans and daisies, their heads waving gently in the breeze. A tightly woven thicket of raspberries was home to a family of rabbits, reminding me of the story "Brer Rabbit And The Briar Patch." In the lowest corner of the garden were the remains of a springhouse, the roof fallen in and the gate hanging brokenly by one hinge. Fed by mountain streams, the water was clear and icy cold, even on this early summer day.

Calmed by my stroll through the woods, and much enchanted by what I had found in the garden, I decided to return to the house and explore what was left of it. Mustering my courage, I clambered over the doorsill--the porch had long since fallen in--and waited a few seconds for my eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. Holding my breath with each step, worrying that the floor would give way beneath me and send me crashing into the basement, I walked from room to room. A large portion of the roof was gone, letting sunshine stream through the rafters in small patches of light. Piles of leaves suggested that the house had stood long seasons open to the elements, and a wisteria vine cloaked one wall of windows. The scratchy, chittering voice of a squirrel told me that the farmhouse was now the home of wild creatures, and the nooks and crannies were filled with bird's nests. The only human artifacts to be found in the house were a charred, broken chair, fallen on its side, and a small tortoise shell comb, the type that women used to wear in their hair. As I held the comb I wondered what its owner's life had been like. In my mind I pictured her cleaning the house, cooking in the kitchen, and toiling in the garden, her hair held in it's matronly style by the smooth, dark comb. I was filled with an odd mixture of sadness and joy--sadness that the things we humans build can so quickly be brought to naught, somehow testifying to the briefness of our lifespan, and joy at the obvious strength of nature, the plants and animals ruled only by the laws of instinct, immune to the fear of tomorrow.

The house is gone now; the property was purchased ten years ago by a young family. The farmhouse has been torn down, a mobile home replacing it at the top of the hill, and the wild growth of the garden has been supplanted by orderly rows of vegetables. Many of the trees have been cut down, and heaps of junk - old cars, washing machines, refrigerators, and scrap metal - now rest where the trees once stood. The "civilizing" forces of humankind reign supreme over that property now, but perhaps, in fifty years or so, nature will once again reclaim it for her own.

This page was last updated on - Mar. 1997. "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!"
Copyright © 1997 Lia Wolf-Gentry A member of