The Carter Farm

By the time I came along in 1963, my grandparents’ farm was a shadow of its former glory; nevertheless, I thought it remarkable. We drove for miles to get there. Past the Indiana Ammunition Plant. Past the Tasty Freeze. Past the gas station that sold orange crush soda in brown bottles from a decrepit vending machine. Finally, we reached Otisco, Indiana. The house sat on the left. Typical Indiana white clapboard farmhouse. Lizards on the back porch. Screen door that gently slammed and led into the kitchen. For Sunday dinner, I sat on a red metal Cosco step stool chair decades before it was retro and ate fried chicken. I admired baby dolls in the Sears Roebuck catalog before they were vintage. I vaguely remember a Christmas celebration in the living room, pink bells filled with angel hair on the tree. The vegetable garden. The barn. The summer kitchen. Barbed wire fences and cows down the lane. Queen Ann’s Lace. Stories about my grandmother’s exquisitely decorated sticks of butter sold for spending money. Going to market. My mother’s pet pig. The one room schoolhouse. More vividly, I remember the image of my grandfather, Michael Carter, lying in bed, close to the wood burning stove, dying of cancer.