Map of a Country Soul

By A.M. Baker
Published on February 3, 2009
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Experiences on a 30-acre farm shaped the soul of one young woman.
Experiences on a 30-acre farm shaped the soul of one young woman.
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Crocuses are a fixture on many farms in the spring.
Crocuses are a fixture on many farms in the spring.

I want to memorize this patch of 30 acres that has been ours for nearly a quarter of a century. My family moved here when I was 8, and I was thrilled. Midwest plains and a tiny town promised branches to climb, creeks to splash in and real horses to ride. Now, some years later, I sit listening to wind chimes composing melodies at the hands of the Midwest wind. I am looking at the hills of more than land: I am looking at the map of my soul.

I can see across the way the ghost of my child-self running across the fields with a dog or two in close pursuit. I see that ghost of my childhood and ask the question we tend to ask so much: how did I get here?

As I sit here, I am 21; I’ve returned home for a time of soul searching, and my parents have offered me sanctuary and love – an attitude I attribute to what living in the country harvests. And now I am flying south from this country living to begin again; I am flying far enough that I might never look back at the past that did so much to shape me and change me. I would not change the person I’ve become, or my impending motherhood – growing up in the country has taught me that change is a thing of seasons, and each season has a beauty unique to its own time.

The tree beside the pond droops in the early warmth of May. I always meant to hang a rope from her branches and swing across the muddy waters of the pond. It’s just as well I didn’t; the pond is really only an ambitious puddle. From my chair on the screened deck, I see my mother’s apple tree in the rock garden that we planted together: I carelessly arranged rocks while my mother patiently trailed behind, fixing the haphazard ring circling the mums, pansies, roses and apple tree.

In the south field, saplings continue to grow; but I remember when that field gave birth to hay, not trees. I remember December sleigh rides fashioned from a plastic purple sled, pulled by a belligerent Shetland pony. “Over the manure we go,” I sang, thinking myself witty. At 10, in those awkward years, one could say that wit was my only asset. I clearly remember that blistering cold of Christmas 1995 – my father ran across the thick snow, his cherry-red face and wind-chapped lips exposed to the sharp winds. He ran as fast as he could, and I yelled, “Faster, Daddy, faster,” as he dragged along Lucky the pony. I didn’t know then that these small moments would come to define me.

One summer I camped 100 feet from the house, thinking myself a rustic pioneer in my own right.

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