History

The family farm is full of haunted places. The wet, sunken basement of the ancient collapsing farmhouse where my grandfather grew up; the massive barn that still smells of cows, even though they last lived there well over a dozen years ago. The toolshed next to the drive, with floorboards soaked in oil, grass clippings and cobwebs in the corner.

All those places have the touch of history, of 200 years of Lawtons being born, living and dying on the 250 acres in Barlow, Ohio.

When I go home, my true home, I'll take a walk past the tool shed, past the barn, and turn left to go up the hill. To the top, where one can summon a view of the surrounding county. Off in the distance to the south are flames in the sky from the petroleum plants of Chemical Alley. Directly to the west is the blinking red eye of the cell phone tower that went up three years ago.

Up on that ground, on the top of the hill that overlooks the farm is the cemetery where my blood lies buried, bones turned black under layers of ivy, moss and lichen. I'll sit up there for a while, not in the graveyard itself, but close enough, and listen.