The landscapes of our childhood stay with us forever.
Some of us are fortunate to grow old on the same stretch of earth where we were born.
Others venture off - traveling, studying, working, caring for family and friends across the country and the planet.
Wherever we might roam, scenes from our youth hang in the back of our minds and hearts like gold-framed photographs. And when we take the time to stop and note those images, they come to life.
Last year, a newly discovered distant relative, Rita Maxfield, gave my mom and me several binders full of family tree research.
Inside one of Rita’s albums, Mom and I stumbled across a black and white photograph of two girls perched on the edge of a large slab of stone, a towering wall of stacked rock rose up behind them, disappearing off the edge of the paper.
“That’s me!” Mom said, pointing at a picture she’d never seen. “And that’s Roberta... and Grandpa Wickens’ stone quarry!”
“I always wondered who those girls were in that picture...” Rita said.
For as long as I can remember, Mom has been talking about the stone quarry in southeast Indiana. When I was a young girl, her descriptions brought the place to life.
When she spoke of the sheer rock cliff right out the back door of their log cabin, I always felt a pang of fear; I could imagine myself creeping up to the edge, holding on to a well-rooted tree trunk as I peered over and down.
From her words, I saw myself running through the same maze of jumbled limestone slabs, hardwood forests, and cool creek bottoms that she did so many years ago.
The farm and quarry were wonderlands. It was a place where Mom and her siblings explored, ran free, played make believe. And, after my grandmother passed away when my mom was just 8 years old, it became a refuge.
“Grandpa Wickens would always take me to the farm,” Mom said. “But then later when he became blind and too old to drive, I’d drive him there. It was the blind leading the blind. He couldn’t see, and I could hardly drive. But we got there...”
Last week, I finally got a chance to visit Mom’s childhood paradise.
My Great-Grandfather Wickens passed away in 1959, yet the couple who bought the property from him still own it. A few years back, my family contacted them to see if we could walk the grounds. “Come anytime,” they insist.
As the couple stands on their front porch, telling story after story about their land and showing us Indian artifacts they found down in the quarry, it’s obvious they still cherish the purchase they made 50-plus years ago.
“We bought it for $10,000 on a contract Mr. Wickens carried,” the gentleman told us.
“That’s ‘cause we had nothing to our name,” his wife added. “We were just starting out with three young kids.”
Great-Grandfather Wickens never lived on the property himself. He was a lawyer and judge in Greensburg, Indiana. The 40 acre farm was his little slice of heaven. He raised sheep, chickens, and horses.
“Before we bought the place, Mr. Wickens rented out the log cabin to a colored family,” the man explained. “Someone didn’t like that and they came and burned the place down.”
Amazing how so many stories - joyful and sad - can come from a 40-acre square of land.
“Someone fell off the cliff once,” the woman said. “They were having a party in the quarry and a guy walked right off the edge. Somehow he lived.”
The sun was slowly setting as I hiked the quarry with Mom, Aunt Adele, and Uncle John. Mom was determined to cover every inch of ground before dark, and I wanted to as well.
As we walked, she told me those same stories once again. But this time she pointed her hiking pole this way and that way, showing me the actual locations of her childhood adventures.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Mom said as we stood along the creek bed, looking up at the autumn sun slipping behind the cliff.
“Perfect,” I said.
How many beloved landscapes from your youth can you return to? And will they still look and feel the same after all these years?
Thankfully, when we look at the world through the clear and wide-opened eyes of childhood, the image has a straight shot to the soul and sticks to the heart for good.
Sometimes the only way to revisit those special settings is in memory.
We tried to locate the actual slab of rock where Mom and Aunt Roberta posed for the photo as kids, but we ran out of time.
We’ll be go back, though. We’re thankful our wonderland still exists.
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