Life on the Farm - Continues Beannaigh Bhfeirm Blessing Farm (in English) could easily have been named Sacrifice Farm. Back in the very beginning of the last century, carpetbaggers (for seriously that is what they were) trolled the hills of Appalachia, selling the simple folk land in Florida. My Great-Grandmother purchased 20 acres in what was to become Orlando. My Great Grandfather mined, logged and dug ginseng up in the hills. They planted gardens for food. They lived simply. And paid the taxes on the Florida land - they never left Appalachia as far as I know. Never seeing what was surely advertised as a gold mine. When they were in their nineties (Grandma Mangus lived to be just short of 100), another carpet bagger came along and bought 10 of the acres from them for next to nothing. The last 10 acres were left to my grandmother upon their death. My Aunt Carroll, a tortured soul and who had talent beyond all reckoning, made sure the taxes were paid every year. During the 1970s when I was in college, I urged them to sell the land so that they could live comfortably. The answer was always no, its being kept for you children. My brother and I. This was about the time that Disney World was being built and land in and around Orlando was going at a premium. Times were lean. Times were hard. I dont now how they did it but the taxes always got paid. My grandmother died and the land passed to my aunt. When she died, it passed to me and my brother. Florida requires that any transaction involving real estate must have an attorney. Florida I think is home to a lot of carpet baggers even now. So armed with attorney and realtor, I set about selling the Florida land that generations of my family had sacrificed beyond measure to keep for the next generation. I sold it, and with my portion, paid off some bills, did some home improvements, and paid off Rupert and invested the rest. The rest became my down payment on the farm. My great grandmother had a pansy patch at her back gate. Every year the pansies gladly reseeded themselves and came back. I think Grandma Mangus guided my hand when I set out those Walmart pansies almost three years ago. I see them each year - happy in their space and think of her. I look out on the expanse of beautiful green grass and amazingly blue skies and think of my grandmother. Each word I pen trying to capture the beauty or essence of the day, I think of my Aunt. who penned such a beautiful poem then wrote music to accompany it describing the first missile launch in Cape Canaveral. I come from a long line of poets. And gardeners. Tending the land and keeping it safe for the next generation. But ah I think, I am the last of this family. Who will come after me. That is a riddle yet to solve. So on this Memorial Day I give thanks to the generations before me who sacrificed so that I could at last alight in a spot where I was meant to be. Blessings my friends. They come in many ways.
Posted on: Mon, 26 May 2014 01:26:13 +0000
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