Heaven and earth are only three feet apart, but in the thin places, the distance is even smaller.
~Old Celtic saying.
Time leaves its mark. Grey hair, lines in the face, muscles that were once lithe and supple, begin to sag and atrophy. The same thing happens to a soul. Heartache, disappointments, anger, endless waiting; they all leave a wrinkle, a furrow, a scar.
Buildings too, bereft of proper care end up derelict and despondent in a material sort of way. Eaves sag, stone crumbles. A roof which once laughed at the rain, and sighed under heavy blankets of snow, now lies tattered, sagging, and full of holes. The whole structure no longer dares the elements, but sulks in shabby shame, apathetic, no longer seeking to shelter but to be sheltered. So it was that I first saw Forty Oaks Farm. A mostly overgrown, ramshackle place on the edge of a hardwood forest.
It belonged to my wife’s family for generations. She grew up there with her older brother and two sisters. When her father died, her mother stayed on bravely—or foolishly depending on who you ask—until she too, passed on. The property fell to my wife as the only heir who wanted anything to do with the place, her siblings wisely having no use for Forty Oaks and the money pit it had become.
I’ll never forget when she told me that the old farm was now ours. “Great,” I remember saying halfheartedly, mostly to humor her. I had never seen the place myself, apart from pictures, but in my mind, I envisioned endless lost weekends and bushels of money tossed away just to make the place habitable again. You know, sometimes a gift isn’t really much of a gift after all. But she was so damned excited about it! She’d go on and on about all the plans she had for it; how we would make it our own. For her sake I played along.
Then came her illness.
