A Place That Bears Our Family Name

By Tim Mackey: 

Growing up as a child in the country, there were many places that held great memories. But one place, in particular, is so dear to my heart and soul that no matter how well I speak or write of it, it will be impossible to convey the magnitude of what it means to me.

Others may hear the words or read them aloud, but the depth of how sacred this place is cannot be fully expressed. For me, this place is the little 80-acre farm that bears our family's last name—the place where my Grandpa and Grandma raised their ten children, where Grandma always had coffee on, and you could always find Grandpa in his striped bib overalls.

Conversations took place in the kitchen and in the living room near the wood stove when it was cold, and under the shade tree in the backyard when it was hot.

My brother and I would take our .410 shotguns to the back of the farm to hunt for rabbits and quail. We would grab our fishing rods and fish the old bluegill pond on the back 40. I still remember Dad telling us, “Come on, boys, it’s time we head to the shed,” which was country slang for, “Time to go home.” Every time, it was the same—my brother and I would hang our heads and plead, “Can’t we stay just a little longer? Please, Dad… please!”

But you can’t stop Father Time. Grandma and Grandpa have long since passed. Now that my brother and I are grown, we only go back to the old farm about once a year. We take my beagle back to that homestead and chase bunnies with our .410 shotguns through the same woods that shaped the men we would become. We sit and reminisce, laughing about the old days and the times we spent there growing up. And then, at the end of the day, we head back to the shed.

But before I leave, I stop and listen.

Through the hollers, I can hear the echoing voices of my Dad and his brothers as they trek around with their .22 rifles and .410 shotguns, arguing over whose turn it is to shoot next. I hear Grandma calling, “Dinner’s ready! Y’all come get washed up!”

I hear the voices of two boys tracking down rabbit and quail in the snow.
I hear one boy say, “Dad, can’t we stay just a little bit longer? Please, Dad… please.”