Written July 16, 2020 (& added to January 2021). A Reflection on Pa Bill & what he meant to me.
Pa Bill, for me, was such a wonderful, loving person. His cheeky smile, and sometimes borderline inappropriate humour, was contagious and endearing, only surpassed by his genuine love and appreciation for his lovely wife, step-daughters, and all of us grandchildren.
Anyone that knows me - knows that a big part of my heart resides at Yew Tree Farm, in England. It's my home away from home - a piece of my life that has remained a consistent buoy in the ebb and flow of the places we've moved to and the various life changes that have come about.
It has been in Pa Bill's family for 3 generations and every part of that property reflects the love and care that has been poured into it by Pa Bill and Grandma.
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| Pa Bill & Grandma |
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| Farm life (pic taken 2011) |
It is a canvas of childhood memories that over the years has been somehow, kept intact, despite the wear and tear of life. Things of a simple nature were made special - turned into traditions by Pa Bill.
Waking up and the realization hitting of where we were, climbing up on the wide framed windowsill to peer out into the back garden and day dream about all the adventures we were going to have that day.
Coming down to breakfast in the morning, feeling the cold carpet on our bare feet and then joining Pa Bill at the table for some cereal, toast and perhaps a hard-boiled egg.
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| Isaiah & Pa Bill enjoying a nice breakfast together (2018) |
As children, holding on tight to the metal gate, as it swung out, bumping and jarring, inciting squeals of joy from the riders determined to hang on at all costs.
The barn - a place of intrigue and mystery. Mere hay bales became secret forts, tunnels, and children would emerge from it at the end of the day, coated in strands of yellow, chattering away about the next adventure.
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| Micah exploring the barn in 2017 |
The garden - a magical place that always felt as though it held the key to Fairyland. As a little girl, we would play at the old well, pumping the iron handle and gleefully squealing at the water that rushed out down through the metal wire netting that covered the top to keep small children from falling in.
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| Playing with my sister Sarah at the well |
Flowers were hardly contained and ran as wild as we children did in our little wellie boots, down the pebbled pathways, playing hide and seek and sometimes a game called lurky (not actually sure how to spell it). I remember when I was really little, there were little cars that we would “drive” down the pathways, using our feet to propel us along.
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| Laura & I - on our own little adventure |
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| Micah in 2017 experiencing pure joy at exploring |
The old iron swing was a favored spot, with little benches and a rope that hung down on each side to pull on to start it swinging. We would squeeze into the seats alongside our cousins and get ready for a ride. An older child would stand on the outer edge, using a boot to push off the ground and start the momentum. It was just as much fun to hang off the back, our small hands gripping the iron stubs that stuck out on either side of the bench backing. As the swing would lift up in the air it caught you up with it, and then drop you back down. I can still remember how it felt, coming back down and your feet flattening out on the ground, only to lift up again into the air with a squeal of delight. It feel like the closest thing to flying as a child.
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| My cousin Laura & I |
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| Micah trying out the rope (2017) |
My favourite memory - a midnight feast with our cousins, where the childlike belief of keeping it secret from our parents, in hindsight, was seemingly impossible with the shrieks of delight, laughter, and the occasional "oomph" from a child landing on a pile of hay, that surely echoed through the barn rafters that night.
When news of a possible dump box ride rang out (no matter our ages), shouts of excitement were echoed around the property. Pa Bill would grab his worn tweed cap, a jacket, and go and fetch the tractor. Once everyone had donned wellie boots, and looks of anticipation, we would pile into the "dump box" a square metal box that was open at the back - our small hands tightening our grips, as we were determined not to fall out. Pa Bill would take us on his usual route, down the well worn lane, past the a sprinkling of neighbouring farms. A dog would usually appear, barking madly, and unconsciously, we would shift as one, closer to the inside of the box, as if the dog would suddenly leap up and into our laps. It would stop at the edge of its master's property, bound by an invisible force and its barks would fade into the distance as we continued onward.
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| Naomi, Sarah & I going for a dump box ride as children (I was prob pre-teen here) |
The tractor would bump down into the part of the lane that was always partially submerged in rainwater, and as the dump box lurched from side to side, everyone would cling to the nearest sturdy surface - the box edge, someone's hand, or shoulder. The water splashed up around our boots and although Pa Bill's back was always to us, I imagine he was grinning at the little excited cries of joy.
We would reach the gate, and someone - usually the oldest one in the group - would get out and swing open the gate for Pa Bill to drive through. Once safely in the field, the gate closed, and everyone back in the box, Pa Bill would floor the tractor up the hill. He liked to drive near the edge of the field, which as a child, and even a easily scared adult, often felt like at any moment we might drop off the cliff, and tumble down, tractor and all. But Pa Bill seemed to know every dip in his fields like the back of his hand, and though the dump box swung wildly, he was in control - completely in his element.
His favourite thing to do during these rides was lift the dump box up in the air, only to suddenly drop it down. Everyone would scream suddenly at the rush of wind, and sudden jolt, and then laugh in relieved tones at our abrupt silliness. Pa Bill would be partially turned around at this point, watching our reaction, and his mischievous smile and the twinkle in his eye let you know he was having just as much fun as we were.
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| Micah having his first dump box ride (2017) |
Often he took us down to the river - a much more peaceful adventure - with the exception of the beginning, where we had to cross the road. This area of the countryside has winding roads that twist very abruptly at sudden corners - one of which bordered the outside of Yew Tree Farm's wall. Many a heavy-footed driver had left their mark there - in the rock wall that was noticeable missing a number of stones each year. Pa Bill had put a large round mirror on the wall, to help someone pulling out onto the road to be able to best judge when was the safest chance to enter. As children - of course we knew nothing of this. But the inevitable awareness that comes with age caused me to routinely hold my breath as we crossed the road to the other field, one tractor, one dump box, and a pile of people hanging on.
Once across, we could breathe easier, and settle into the natural bumping along as the tractor rolled its way down the field, towards the river. The cows often followed in our wake, curious about this strange mash of small people in the box that was supposed to contain something edible. They would draw close, only to startle and jump back at the slightest indication of movement in their direction. But curiousity often got the best of them and despite their equally large fear instinct, it compelled them to stay close.
The sheep were the same, if not a bit more nervous, unless it came to Pa Bill. I have a memory of Pa Bill and Grandma sitting on the edge of the hillside, and an insistent sheep nudging his head against Pa Bill's back in search of food. Pa Bill grunted and waved him away but I thought it quite special - how comfortable the sheep are with the shepherd. In spite of their innate ability to do everything but what they are supposed to - they know the shepherd, his voice and his intention for them, and they are safe within that knowledge.
And of course, the old Austin. I'll never forget Pa Bill's excitement when Jay got it working after it being dormant in the barn for the past seven years. He took it out on the road for a spin, and as we flew along the neighbouring village road, tooted the hand-held horn at anyone we saw. One time when Jay and I were in it, it ran out of gas on a particularly sharp corner, and Pa Bill had to come and rescue us with his tractor.
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| 2014 - A special photo shoot |
A lot of these memories revolved around something tasty. Sandwiches in the field watching the farmers at hay time. Chocolates being brought out around the fireplace, in the small sitting room that held the warmth of firelight and laughter in the evening. Tea in the garden with some sort of cake that Grandma had specially made, along with her favoured elderflower cordial. Sneaking marzipan or icing sugar from a cake in the pantry, when Grandma wasn't looking. Breakfast of cereal, toast, jam, and hardboiled eggs, each morning in a room filled with trinkets and family photos. Tucking into Grandma's traditional apple and raspberry crumble with cream or icecream. Scones and clotted cream (the real kind) and jam. So many tasty treats, so many good memories.
In the front of the farm are a row of seats, assembled from old tractor parts. Pa Bill would often sit out on these or the front bench, cigarette in hand, completely content. Though my nose couldn't help but wrinkle at the smell, there was a pocket of peacefulness he carried with him in these moments, that always invited you in, drew you near, to hear what he might say next, and just be present in the moment with him.
Over the years, with the distance that came from our family's move to the states and then to Canada, every visit to the farm became an attempt for me to somehow freeze in time the beauty and timelessness of this place and the beautiful people who make it so special. I took a lifetime of photos, made short films, always trying to touch the presence of this place from afar. I even had the chance to have my maternity photos there where I was pregnant with Micah - which was so special to share with Pa Bill and Grandma. That's where the perfectly captured mischievous photo of Pa Bill came from (first pic).
One of my biggest dreams of sharing these memories and traditions with our boys came true when we visited with them in 2017, and then again in 2018. I have photos and videos of the boys from those two special trips swinging on the gate, riding in the dump box, climbing in the hay loft, eating tasty treats in the garden, and playing hide and seek and all matter of games all over the farm. I remember when Pa Bill's amusement at their interest in his remote controlled chair gave way to a bit of alarm as he began to tip further and further back - a remote setting he had not thought to attempt on his own.
I never quite knew if each visit would be our last and so every visit was filled with creating intentional wonderful moments that we chose to be aware of and not take for granted. It's the closest experience to what I imagine a time machine or time capsule embodies.
I feel there's much more to process about losing Pa Bill - and the undeniable impact it has on me and my life. I can't quite go there just yet. Though I know he's gone, it just hasn't sunk in. And I don't know, honestly, if it will until my next trip to England. For now, writing down the wonderful memories he's been a part of, is my way of feeling connected to him, for being as present as possible with what's happening there now, in the aftermath, and the sadness, and the grief. I'm so very thankful he stole my Grandma's heart all those years ago, and became such an integral part of our family. xo
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| A poem I wrote about my favourite place in the world - when I was young. |
