Our partially empty upstairs space has grown to be a record of sorts. There is the bookcase full of agriculture titles, mostly about small and alternative farming. And the stairs coming up are lined with pictures of kids growing up, both of us are there as are all our children. One former bedroom is a display of junior high and high school art, here a girl on a swing, there a small girl leans over to kiss a small boy. A melange of horses. There is the farm building scene and the panorama of a combine in a field unloading into a truck. Dreams of small girls and a small boy.
On the other wall is a photo shot by a friend superimposed with a poem of Wendell Berry, singing about death and birth and regeneration. The photo is of a barbed wire fence making it over a small hill near a tree, which I had admired in the photographer's studio a few years ago. What I didn't know then and have since begun to understand is that I am attracted to fences, because in some way they are a sign of human determination to stay. I will need to explore this further.
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