The house stood on top of a hill.
All of the trees that used to protect it were taken down to make room for the bulldozers. The wind roared through the old windows and paper thin walls. Winter’s icy breath was announcing its return. It was a cold, harsh landscape that had turned into a midwestern winter desert seemingly over night, making the task of looking through the boxes more immediate. My fingers and toes were numb with frostbite but the discovery of lost items kept my fingers anxious to open another box. Years of neglect had caught up with the place.
Some of the items, like the gold talcum powder tin, had been around since I was very young and still in the same spot I remember. Other items like the newspaper clipping about the war with Japan were fascinating to me to see it firsthand and the first time I ever saw it. Knowing most of the things in the farmhouse had survived decades of change but were in their last hours made it somehow more poignant to me.
The farmhouse was burned to the ground a few months after I took these photos along with most of the things in it. I took these photos in hopes of recording what a beautiful place this once once was. To preserve the memory of the people and shed a little light on their story.
I haven’t decided if I’ll do a part 3 yet. I have many more photos from the 4 months I spent running back and forth from the cities to the farm. In the end it was healing for me. I have said my goodbyes. One day I may continue telling the history of who these people were and how I fit into their lives to tell the story.