When we moved to this house, part of the allure of the area was that it was so rural. The roads ran along between thick, ancient forests, with branches almost touching high over the roof of the car. We'd drive along the winding roads, relishing the flickering sunlight, the soothing mix of green, and the feeling of solitude. Often the homes and farms here have the same quality as the roads; hidden among the trees, private.
I said once to a friend who had moved from Arizona to Georgia, "How can you stand a place where there are no trees?" "How can you stand a place where there are so many?" she said. All the trees make her feel claustrophobic, she explained. How can you see where you're going with all the trees in the way? "Oh," I said, before I could stop myself, "the trees are like a blanket, like your clothes. How can you stand spending your whole life naked??"
When we moved to this county, it was one of the fastest growing counties in the country. Skyrocketing home prices everywhere made this humble place, where prices were still reasonable, attractive. And we were part of that demographic. Any time we felt to grumble about how many people were suddenly here, we had to remind ourselves that we were part of the growth. We weren't stalwart old citizens of this county. We were the new blood.
So that when the development for the Target shopping center just up the road commenced, although we were heartsick to see the trees cut down and the ground scraped and gouged clear of anything but Georgia red clay, we had to admit that, in part, it was because we were here.
But as I drove past the construction site, and as I now drive by the shopping center, a couple of things bother me, and I'm not even sure why.
There was only one house on the edge of the forest that was cut down. Naturally the developers bought the house and razed it before construction began. As we went up and down the road in front of that house, on our way to the library, to the grocery store, to church, we saw the signs of people moving out: first a garage sale, then the moving trucks. After they were gone, the house sat empty for a few days, looking pensive and forlorn.
And then the machinery dug away the ground all around the foundation of the house, leaving it standing on a funny, house-sized plateau. And then the machinery tore the side off the house. Work must have been called off for the weekend then, because I recall driving by that house several times when it was in that condition. I was almost embarrassed every time I'd go by, and stare helplessly, because how often do we see a house like that? Two rooms were gaping open, two private places where people had lived. There was the blue-flowered wallpaper that someone had lovingly hung over a long weekend. The light fixtures they had replaced when their children broke them. A lace curtain flapped in and out of one open window. This had been someone's home. It seemed almost a sacrelige to display it to the driving-by public that way.
On the other side of the road is a little farmhouse that sits close to the crossroads, and faces the new shopping center. Behind the house, acres and acres of that farm's pastures roll away, dotted with hay bales. Before the shopping center came, this farm, like everything else around, was cozied down among the trees. The view from the front porch was across the road, into the forest. Now the view is into the front windows of McDonald's.
As I drive by this farm, with its tall trees reaching uselessly across the road toward the trees that no longer reach back, I watch the family there. They don't seem to actually live in the farmhouse anymore. Several grown children, with children of their own, come a couple of times a week. They pull up in front of the house and help a feeble old man out of the car. Then they mow the lawns and air the house while the old man, who must be the farmer, wanders aimlessly around the yard and barns.
Just this week, I passed the farmhouse, and the old man stood alone under an ancient pecan tree, picking up pecans one by one with a little basket on a rod. His back was turned to the shopping center and he worked methodically, picking up one pecan after another. Was he imagining that the shopping center didn't exist? If he looks the other way, all he sees is his pastures, which must have been the same for many years before now. If he covers his ears, he won't hear the bustle and the busyness.
I watched, with a twinge, as workmen pounded the stakes for a sign into the ground at the corner of that farm. "For Sale, up to 90 acres" it announces. And it only makes sense, because a farm across from a Target is a short-lived incongruity.
My feelings are in a mad mix as I drive now between the busy shopping center and the once quiet farm. I know that progress happens. I know that I have, in part, done this. I know that the only constant in life is change. And I can't help but wonder what goes on in the life, in the mind, of one of the stalwart citizens of this county. He has the "right" to grumble about the new blood. Does he?
To be fair to the Target, (if a Target needs such things) I'm often glad that it's there. There's much less pause now when Father Bird and I decide we need a quart of Ben and Jerry's after the children are in bed. But I wonder, just a little, about the cost. As I watch the old man's children guide him gingerly back into the car just before they drive away, I realize that the demographics in this area have moved from people like him to people like me. That what I looked for when I moved here is quietly slipping away.
I am sorry, old man. I didn't mean to send you away. I hope your children can find you a place, with a pecan tree, where you can stand in real solitude, without having to pretend I'm not there.
~MB~
Thursday, November 19, 2009 at 02:11PM 
