Fruitful

In my post from Tuesday (that should have gone up Monday, but was delayed), I talked briefly about all the fruit we have at our new place and how it reminded me of summers at my grandparents’ farm.  I’d intended to get back to that in my post from yesterday (again, delayed), but I ended up going a different direction.  So today, let’s take that trip to Grandpa and Grandma’s house.

My grandparents lived on a farm about half an hour away from us.  My grandmother lived all but six months of her life on that farm, as it had been passed down through the years from one generation to the next.  It’s a century farm, and I’m proud to be part of that tradition, even though the acreage has been sold off and all that’s left now is crop ground.  I’d like to someday buy the acreage back, but so far, no luck (the one time it was up for sale, the timing was just not right and we couldn’t do it *sigh*).

When I was little, the acreage included much more than it does now.  When you turned in the driveway, the house was on the right and the old garage was on the left.  The old garage has now been leveled, but the foundation remains, and the new owners put up a basketball hoop.  Just west of the old garage was a corn crib, which I believe still stands, and to the west of that was a barn.  It was lost in a fire several years ago – the new people had heating lamps in the barn for some animals, and somehow the place caught fire.  If it hadn’t been for a passing fireman, of all people, the whole farm might have burned.