For the past week I've been in SW Georgia visiting my family. My brother Charles has been doing a great job, along with our family's longtime employee Bennie Jackson, cleaning up brush, planting wildflowers, and planning walking trails around the farm where I grew up. He took me on a drive around the pine stands and pastures near the house, and as I looked again at the familiar scenery, I remembered how important "the home place" has been to generations of farm families.
Here is the house and pump-house, seen through the May greenery. When my grandparents' home place burned down years ago, we all wept for its loss, even though nobody had been living there for several years. Still, we knew our memories lived there. They still do. Many of my poems have grown out of those memories.
Trees have been like guiding spirits to me all my life, especially the ones I wandered through as I grew up.
Above you can just make out the old enclosure where my father would "work on" the cattle, as he described it, branding and inoculating them.
My father loved to fish at this pond, which he stocked with catfish and brim. Water birds will sometimes come to spend awhile here. While he was still alive, my father could catch a glimpse of them from the house.
The trees and sky reflected on the surface make the pond a waterscape for the imagination. I could spend hours just sitting pondside watching, until the mosquitoes arrived! And the no-see'ums. And the gnats.
Our farm has always been a beautiful place, but thanks to my brother's and Bennie's hard work and vision, it will be a place where those who care about the land will be able to come for a first-hand look at how farmland can be managed for both beauty and sustainability.
