The grass grows up to the foundation, a crumbling remnant of what once was and upon which sits a crooked shamble of bone dry wood devoid of paint and life. A front door hangs open, fractured hinges falling forward, trash heaping inside hallow rooms and the life that once was this farm is now gone.
It’s amazing how fast it happens. A farm is sold – for the land usually – and the house sits empty. The old houses especially, those built before composite siding and quality paint, compost back into the landscape in a quick succession of years. A door is left open and the coons and swallows get in. A tree falls on the roof, punching a hole through so that rain pours in. Mice invade in droves.
It is sad, for most of these skeletal remains of homesteads could, with a bit of care, have been the future home of the new homesteaders, those urban families looking for a few acres, for the chance to grow their own food and raise a few chickens.
But now they litter the landscape, wooden corpses sinking back into the earth, never to be reclaimed. They will be bulldozed soon, great piles will rise up. Dead barns and granaries and homes will be pushed into a great funeral pyre and burned, then buried.
And next year it will all be corn.