My Day of Therapy

It was a trip down Memory Lane. The three year old wanted to spend the afternoon with her daddy. “Meet me at the old mink barns,” he instructed me. That was simple. I grew up on that road.

The day was sunny and bright; the sky a brilliant blue. I found myself smiling as I slowly- very slowly travelled down the old, familiar road. A quiet, country road. I drank in all the sights and sounds of spring- not that there was much to see to the average eye- except for farms. When it’s your old, familiar stomping grounds, though, the memories come flooding back.

The girls were fast asleep in the back. All was peaceful and quiet. I let my mind wander back- back to a little Amish girl full of life and adventure, full of hopes and dreams. Somewhere, back in that “wooded” area was a spring- fed well. How often we would scamper down the old railroad tracks (now called the G2G Trail) and romp and play, drinking from that bubbling well that never ran dry!

In the winter, we would pull our sleds back there and go sledding.

The farm where I grew up…the long, long lane. We were so excited when we built a new shed- and now my brother was adding on to it. I have this memory of him spelling the word “criticism” wrong and I marched right up to the task of correcting him! It hurt his ego and boosted mine. He married the neighbour girl; the one who I ran around with, scampering in the woods and decorating rotted- out tree trunks with wildflowers and such. Every summer, we planned a camping trip back in their bush and every summer went by and we never did that overnight camp.

Back in those days, my four younger sisters and I loved to run out our long lane and down to the old Schmidt homestead. Underneath the shingles, lay the original log house. That fascinated me. The ladies, themselves, seemed “old” to us. They were spunky and lively, though, and kept us coming back to sing for them by distributing candy and gifts. Despite that, we genuinely loved them. Fast forward a few years and we were now filling their woodbox, mowing lawn, and trudging through the snow path to the old water pump. This seemed eccentric, even to a home- grown Amish girl! Eventually, they had to move to a nursing home and a few years later, passed away. Yet, the memories remained.

“”What’s this?” I mutter to myself. A quick glance shows me that the little ones are still sleeping so I pull over. On the corner of the old Angus Bauman homestead is a well- kept area with an old boiler and a plaque. Curious, now, I walk over to read it. I am transported to another era, another time on this same road. Oh, the stories this road could tell! I didn’t know this was here.

I watch an old tractor wind its way down the lane- it looks like the one that Angus Bauman used to blow out our lane with, every winter. I’m not sure though, and I don’t want to ask. A younger man sits on the seat. A grandson, perhaps.

Then, of course, there’s the “the old mud road” as we liked to call it. Cathy (now my sister-in-law) and I would trek down there many a Sunday afternoon and explore its every nook and cranny. There is something mysterious about an old road that nobody uses anymore.

“Someday,” I promise myself, I’ll bring my family back here and we’ll bike down this old trail. I will tell them stories just like my mom did to us. How we loved those stories, especially the school stories! It fascinated us that our mom, who had grown up in the same home we were growing up in, went to the small country school down the road. It was different back then. Everyone in the neighborhood went to the same school. One memorable day, we got to tour the old school with the other families. Stories flowed and we soaked up the history of the place.

It was time to go. The three year old was awake and immediately checked her surroundings for that first glimpse of “daddy’s truck!” She was making her own memories.

Back on the road again, I decided to tour some more. The day was too beautiful to waste. I parked beside a small country church. This church wasn’t here back in “my day” but it was a peaceful addition to this country back road, nonetheless.

I soaked up the peace, the quiet. From my vantage spot, I could see the farm where I grew up. If I turned my head a little, I could see my oldest sister’s farm. The farm closest to me was where we had that tomato fight. I don’t remember how it began nor how it ended but we thought it was fun. It opened up friendships with the neighbour children so I suppose it was not all bad. I’m sure our moms had extra laundry to do.

I have this memory, suddenly, of a little school girl traipsing slowly down the road, her nose in a book. If I went home from school too fast I was sure to be put to work and my greatest interest was the latest books in the travelling library. I must have been ten or so. I remember looking at a picture of a family praying together. I looked up to the blue, blue sky and somehow knew that the God who lived “up there, somewhere” also loved me. A deep longing rose up inside of me that I did not understand.

The years rolled by and I found myself the oldest in the group of school children. One evening, we noticed the same car going past us many times and it made us nervous. He turned around and came back, slowed down and turned around again. After a few times of this, I decided to take the little ones to the nearest home. I was surprised when they phoned the police as I was expecting them to drive us home. We waited there for awhile until they showed up. As the oldest in the group, I was the one Mr. Policeman chose to question. I was awed and a little scared too. I certainly felt important! That episode resulted in the neighbours taking it upon themselves to send their son out to meet us with their German Shepherd dog. We certainly felt safe after that.

The Little One started squirming in the back seat. It was time to stop my reminiscing and hurry on home. Gazing up into the blue, blue sky, once again, I had an even deeper sense of being loved. The God I longed for back then had made Himself known to me. I thanked Him for the beautiful life I’d been given, both then and now.

I travelled slowly down the road once more. I had one more destination; the school. This was “my”school, the one I’d attended in Kindergarten and taught at for five school terms. Curious eyes watched me as I travelled by, slowly. I know these children. They are the younger siblings of the children I taught. They are my nieces and nephews- the children of my childhood friend that I explored the countryside with. They are children of other friends, and I imagine they are making their own happy memories that will be attached to this place.

I turn on to the busy highway and pick up speed. I have things to do and places to go. One can only “sit around” for so long then it’s time to get on with it. That happy glow stays with me, though. I’m grateful I took time out of my day to do this. If you’ve never travelled down Memory Lane-you should!

It is good for the soul.