My Constant Piece of Land: Grandparent's Farm
Aitkin County, MN

The Barn

Of all the places I have experienced in my life, the constant has been a plot of land owned by my Grandparents in Northern Minnesota. This land is 180 acres of wild memories, hope, and growth for me. The feelings of this place start as soon as I leave the tiers of suburbs surrounding the northern side of the twin cities. I know I'm leaving suburbia and entering a more rural lifestyle because a thin strip of forest suddenly divides the highway and my car is engulfed by the essence of northern Minnesota. My excitement always continues to rise as I pass familiar landmarks: the Amoco station I always get my gas at on the return trip, the wetland that has an old snag with an Eagles nest, the farm where I once had to stop to let a black bear cross the road, the far side of Rabbit Lake which my grandparents property abuts, and the neighboring farms dispersed among the woods.

The first thing I have always done upon jumping out of my car is to stop and deeply breathe in the air. The air smells fresh, wild, and proud, as it should—as if it knows that it has been able to dodge human touch thus far.

As I breathe in, I close my eyes and still frames of this land throughout different seasons and points in my life flash through my head.

I am six, running barefoot in the waves of the summer heat. I am helping my grandma garden, pulling weeds and balancing on the railroad ties separating the flowers from the encroaching grass, trying to put one small, confident, tanned leg in front of the other.

I am ten, and I'm receiving, with naïve excitement, my first horse for my birthday. I hop on bareback, goofily grinning from ear to ear with confidence. I squeeze my spotted horse with my legs, and in front of my entire extended family I promptly find myself sailing through the air and crashing on soft summer grass as spots of brown and white gallop by.

My Horse, Raya

I am twelve, and my grandpa is towing my cousins and I a mile towards the lake in the snow with his big blue tractor. We crest the ridge of the enormous hill that looks over the frozen lake and unhook our toboggan from the tractor. We count and push, flying down the hill, pretending we are the Jamaican bobsled team from the movie Cool Runnings . When we explode and spill in every direction, there is silence, and then I ask in my best Jamaican accent “are you dead yet?” My cousins reply in a similar accent, “yah mahn!”

I am seventeen, and I am sharing the freedom of this land with my best friend Kaaren. We ride horses through the woods, talking about our latest teenage crushes. We haul bails of hay and wood to help my grandparents, take the paddleboat to the middle of the lake and jump in, stay in the cool water all day, and return to a bonfire, pre-cooked and sunburned.

My Grandpa Bailing Hay

I am a freshman in college, running, crying, to my horse who understands my emotions and me better than any other being. She comforts me, gently nuzzling and nibbling at my collar. I return inside to talk with my grandma who has always held my ideas and values as important and valid even when I was five. We talk late into the night about who I am and what I can do in this world.

Finally, I am a senior in college and it is my last spring break before I graduate. I start my garden seedlings, snowshoe around the wetlands my grandpa created down to the lake where I witness a Great Grey Owl searching wisely for its supper. I sit for an hour watching this magnificent bird. Swooping from a fencepost to a tree, never more than fifteen feet from my perch, the Great Grey hovers in the air and plunges to the snow, capturing a mouse like creature. The owl stares right through me as it swiftly swallows its prey.

Part of the Garden

From this piece of land and my family's connections to it, I have learned the art of staying as curious as a five-year-old. I have learned this curiosity by keeping my eyes open to new species and changes within the land, and I continue to ask questions to my grandma who has guided my soul with advice, stories, and questions in return. This piece of land has allowed me, like a small child to try new things, to understand success and failure in a project, and to grow. These projects taught me how to grow through building a tree fort, tending a garden, training and learning with horses, helping my grandpa with chores, and art projects explored in my grandma's pottery or painting studios. These projects have enhanced my relationship with this piece of land, my grandparents and myself.

The Trail Down to the Lake

When we grow up we tend lose ourselves in society, success, and responsibilities. Sometimes at night, before we go to bed, or after dinner, we sit down with a sigh, hold our tea, and remember what it was like to have all of that natural energy, curiosity, and free time. We remember how we were able to run barefoot and carefree. I too have been lost in that world of chaos and hectic schedules, yet when I return to that piece of land, I first lose my shoes (I love being barefoot in the summer) and I then look for change. I begin to notice that there are always new things to be found in this wildness. I can never understand every aspect of this land, and so am able to keep my eyes wide open, to lose inhibitions and recognize seasons, animals, plants, work as play, amazing sunsets, and different coyote packs conversing. I never want to lose this place; it has been a steady flow of hope and a feeling of home for most of my life. Through family, familiarity with an actual piece of land, and an active history in the same spot, I have learned that this farm is my constant place of replenishment.

The Pasture and my Horses