Your Story-Rural

While out on a walk, I noticed a grouping of buildings with a story to tell.  I wasn’t quite able to decipher the tale and am seeking your help.  Tell me a story.

Your Story is a SethSnap series in which you get to decide the story behind the photo.  You can write a story, a poem or even just one word.  You decide.  Open your favorite writing program, turn on the spell check and go!


To see previous Your Story posts click on “Story Time” on the right.

49 responses to “Your Story-Rural

  1. Reblogged this on My A-muse-ing Life and commented:
    The old farm was so worn down and broken, but it was all we had. When the factory closed, Pa started the farm hoping to save our family, hoping to keep us from starvation. The farm kept us going for the last several decades, fed us, let us barter and sell to pay our bills and put clothes on our backs.

    The farm supported us for many years, but then the bad year came, the worse year ever when every farmer around lost nearly 100% of their crop. The big farms survived, many had insurance and those that didn’t had enough resources to keep plowing through.

    It was the small farms like ours that suffered the most. Now here we were, broken and barren, struggling to hold on to the farm we loved. The bank took the farmhouse and the land it was on last year; it broke Pa’s heart. The doctors said it was a heart attack, but we all knew Pa’s heart was strong until they took the house.

    We set up our camper near the barn, and kept on going, selling the cattle we could afford to loose, and milking the few remaining cattle to sell the milk. Ma made bake goods to sell at Farmers Markets, I worked in our small orchard and sold what I could and my sister began growing herbs to sell tea and knitting hats and scarfs with wool from the few sheep we had left. Slowly we began to come back from such loss, at least financially, yet every day we watched Ma’s health slip further and further away. She longed for Pa, for the home we’d grown up in, and I was afraid we would loose her soon too. If only there was something we could do to make our land what it once used to be.

  2. This place made me remember when I was a teen and I called me grandparents one. They always got me to the site, it was amazing. But nowadays I don’t go, cuz the owner of the site (he’s my father’s uncle). After his wife’s death, he was such depressive and when the doctor told ‘im he’s got a cancer, he killed himself. I miss the time I called them on.

  3. A rusty roof with weathered walls
    Dirty floors and empty halls
    Broken glass for window panes
    Muddy puddles when it rains
    Now abandoned, free from harm
    Now, picturesque with rustic charm

  4. While it did happen long ago, the building has not forgotten as the splash of blood shows. For the building will never forget the evil done behind its doors or under its eves. Someone, something must remember. And it will as long as it remains.

  5. Rural…
    life was hard., can’t you see
    they’ve all gone and left me
    I’m empty… wasting away
    as one season fades into the next
    my bones are old and weathered
    the rain and wind, destroying
    the icy fingers of winters
    took away my prime
    paint long gone, cracks opening
    without a generation to care
    I am an abandon soul…

  6. Pingback: A visit from home « Funkangeles·

  7. A Rural Story

    It’s not a place Wyeth would have come here to paint.
    There is not that pilgrim lived on the land for generations
    Feel about it. As if the barn wood would have been more
    Sturdy with twenty coats or more of whitewash on it.
    Still the Thompsons, then McCurtys, now the Crandles
    Have all at one time called it home in one way or the other.

    All that’s left of things is what you see there now. The house
    Burnt up two years ago this Christmas. There is nothing like
    A real tree to smell the house up fresh but the downside is
    When you’re not watchin’ it will go to blazes like matches
    Set to straw. They lost the grandmother and the two youngest
    That year. Old man Crandle and his son come out to milk
    The three cows, and feed the pigs, and maintain the three
    Fields down the hill for hay-feed. But they never go near
    Where the house was, still just two burnt chimneys standing,
    And nothing but burnt stubs of studs and old charred timbers
    Just standing like it did when it was all over and just smoldering.

    The mother and the oldest girl ain’t been back since at all.
    But sometimes I see the old man come up late in the afternoon
    And just stand by the edge of the barn and stare at what remains
    Then slip into the small doorway on the side of the barn and
    Though I can’t be sure, I swear to God I can hear him cough
    With a hurt down so deep then start to weeping open like a child.

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