Some people dream of a mansion sprawled across acres and acres of manicured gardens. Power and prestige would testify from behind hedges that someone of fame lives there, the barrier blocking the wandering eye or the nosy passersby. Smells would waft from the ground, luring the hungry traveler of feasts they would never consume. Did I share that ideal? -Perhaps as a child, since children fantasize about anything, even something as absurd as living there. Yet today, as I pass the pungent odors of dairy farms, my fondest memories stir from the smell of manure as I transport to a much simpler home, where the acres of land are festered with pokey weeds that embed in your socks and hair. On the occasion when city folk visited, they would watch their step as they attempted to walk through the weeds that grew as high as sequoias, growth that hid the slithering snakes and pesky rodents.
I called that place home.
Or at least my temporary home -Trenton, Utah.
As young adults leave Trenton, their world will open to a freedom deprived to them in the farm town, a place of fields and animals, where youngsters wander for hours, dreaming of city life. “If only,” the child wished, “the town had a theater or mall.” Heck, they would settle for Walmart. Unbeknownst to them, with their heads stuck in the clouds, country kids own the crown jewel, and they don’t realize it.
Imagination fueled by boredom.
Ask any child raised in the countryside, and they will proclaim to live in the most boring town around. Their use of imagination forced upon them, never realizing through tediousness that their genius takes life-creativeness, like a stagnant pond that produces the participants of an amphibian race, as the neighbor kids place in pickle jars and cut-out-milk jugs, fat, rubbery frogs. Somehow, the message spreads like fire, and by noon, all kids have convened at the city soccer field, where an impromptu game of frog races commences. It is here that wagers are placed and bragging rights won. Nervous kids rock back and forth on their heels, egging their blubbery contestant to hop across the shredded twine recently rescued from the gutter. Other kids drop to their knees alongside the grand race, yelling.
“Move it, you fat slob!”
Names from the old stomping ground have dissipated in the cosmos, probably never to be retrieved. As kids, we were buddies with everyone, always stuck dragging our friend’s three-year-old brother along. No one wanted the whiny toddler there, who slowed all activities and, more often than not, got us in trouble, but they came, tethered to the group by someone’s mom.
“Guys! Guys! Come on, guys,” a little sister would call out, stranded at the base of the sycamore tree. We fanned out in our refuge, our safe space where obnoxious siblings couldn’t reach. With a newfound freedom, only for an hour, we sucked in fresh oxygen that the leaves shared with us. Sprawled along limbs, various shades of green blew above our faces, and we soaked in the purity of childhood.
“I found some broken boards next to Ol’ Man Maxwell’s field,” a kid would offer.
“You grab those, and I can sneak out a hammer from the garage. Dad has like fifty.”
“What about nails?” another kid would ask.
How many times did we construct the tree house in our heads? It would be elaborate, built better than even our own homes.
“If I am stealing Dad’s hammer, then I get a room to myself.”
“Yeah, but I am risking all to steal Ol’ Man Maxwell’s boards. I get the private room.”
And then, as quickly as the dream transpired, the group broke apart as someone fought over the blueprints of our perfect clubhouse, a clubhouse that we never stood a chance of completing.
I have not kept in touch with anyone from my father’s small town. When I spent weekends and summers trapped in Trenton, a mix of suburbia brat and country wanderer, I would dread the vast amount of wasted time. My brother Dustin and I would flop around on the thrift couches covered in animal fur and dander and mope at our predicament. Without fail, we would be missing a birthday party, if nothing else, our toys and comfort. My father would skip out on the promised fishing trips and spend half the weekend napping or sorting through his mounds of collected junk.
When we couldn’t take the confinement of the unstimulating walls, that’s when boredom reached inspiration. We would find ourselves outside in our country’s wonderland. Father had given me the loft above the barn for my clubhouse, which felt private and secure. I don’t believe my parents ever went up inside it, for they seemed ancient and fragile, and surely the climb would snap their limbs in half. Now, I take a sip of tea and realize I am at least ten years older than they had to be at that time. I shudder at the thought.
Father’s property afforded experience with goats, sheep, chickens, turkeys, cats, and dogs. Although he didn’t have cows, the dairy farm next to his property provided all the chances to find amazement in how much a cow could pee. It also came with the added benefit of the manure spreader parked next to our dining room window. For most meals, the entertainment of the circling flies figure-skating in cow crap enthralled us.
If we couldn’t find enough stimulus on Father’s mini-farm, we could skip over the road behind us and make our way to Father’s second property, the one with the rotting log house and the dilapidated trailer, which happened to be another gift to me from Father. I liked this playhouse so much better because it had cupboards in the kitchen, and despite the dangling doors that barely hung from the hinges and peeling Formica, it was the perfect setting to play house in. We tended not to go into the back bedroom of the trailer because the hobos from the train track left remnants of their lodging with their wasted paper products rudely strung all over the bed, smeared black, brown, and yellow on the mattress, and not to forget the giant turd cemented in the waterless toilet bowl. Yes, the trailer that smelt like mildew and unwashed strange men set the stage for many imaginative scenarios.
Life was simpler when the biggest worry was being bored. As I observe the participants in this new impromptu marathon, the adult rat race, I watch so many people strive for the mansion with all its comforts of life. Yet, I step away from the racecourse, hoping not to finish with them, rebelling against crossing the tattered twine that would lead to supposed happiness. I don’t need that, a dwelling setup where everything is perfect and catered. A home where I can engage in every pleasurable sense while robbing myself of the crown jewel of life.
Imagination and boredom.
Give me the challenge. Show me the rough and unhinged. Don’t shove me into a picture-perfect environment and expect me to find satisfaction. I like dirt, as it colors my skin and can create plants and life. I need to lay on a blanket and gaze up at the clouds, allowing my mind to turn the billowing mediums into astounding pictures, if only for a moment. I want long grass to wiggle my toes in and to ground my bare feet to the earth. I need neighbors who don’t care if there is a broken toilet in my front yard or a donkey braying at night.
Some people dream of a mansion sprawled across acres and acres of manicured gardens. I dream of returning to a simpler life, where I take time to meditate or get dust in my face as I feed the chickens. To me, the dream exists in the country, on a property not tainted by the city.
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Which One Would You Choose
by Stephanie Daich
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