Rusted dreams

 An old, deserted farmhouse sits in the middle of corn fields, long since abandoned, leaving behind memories of settlers who made this land their own. As I look inside the decaying house, I can picture how it was in its day, filled with the laughter and the prayers of a young family who traveled there in wagon trains, with every mile another step closer to their dreams. I look around, and in my mind, I picture the simplicity and the hard work when eighteen-hour days were common, as the chores never ended. I see a rag doll and a small bow and arrow made with love.

It was a small house, just three rooms, built in a hurry to withstand the harsh winters. I see the remains of a stone fireplace now, just piles of stones used to make it. I can see the family sitting by the fire, sharing stories of days gone by and remembering those they left behind.

Leaving the house, I walked to the barn, another weathered structure that served as shelter for the mule and storage for corn they would sell at the market in town, a dozen miles away. It struck me as odd that, even after all these years of being empty, I could smell the hay and picture a young man with a pitchfork in his hand, whistling a tune his mom sang to him when he was younger.

Back outside, I walked around the land, coming upon rusted farm equipment left to decay, and each had a story to tell if you just listened. How many rows of soil were tilled by the old mule-driven plow, and how long did it take to plant seeds one handful at a time? I found an outbuilding, or what was left of it, once a blacksmith's space to forge a variety of tools and horseshoes after they traded corn for a healthy but aging horse.

As darkness approached, I left the old homestead with a thousand memories and wondered what became of the settlers. There could be many reasons, like smallpox or fever, or maybe starvation, that left the place empty. Perhaps they gave up on the farm as nature played cruel jokes on them, like dust bowls or drought. Did they all pass on together, embracing death as it knocked on their door, or did they give up and move closer to the city where jobs and opportunity awaited?

A short time later, I returned to the old homestead with a camera in hand and took pictures of everything I had seen before. It was a timeline of joy and anticipation that turned to rotted boards and rusted equipment. I displayed my photos at a renowned gallery in the city, naming the collection "Rusted Dreams."

Mike 2025