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Trespassing the Future by Ink Tea
August 23rd, 2008 2:10 PM / Location: 43.159988,-97.69214My first memory of the Other Place was visiting my great grandmother, who still lived there, but wouldn't for much longer, as her Alzheimer's was making it harder to live there on her own, even though she was a quarter mile down the gravel driveway from the House, where my grandparents lived.
The Other Place was the original house on the centennial homestead that my great-grandfather had claimed as part of the "timber culture" of the Homestead Act of 1862. When my great grandmother moved out of the house 25 years ago, no one ever moved into it. This was likely because my aunts and uncles were now all adults living far from the farm, as were their cousins. I don't even remember any of my relatives staying at the Other Place during Christmas, Easter, or Thanksgiving- there was always enough room at the House. The Other Place refers not only to my great-grandparents' house, but also to that part of the farm.
But the Other Place was still present- we'd go up to mow the overgrown lawn or to re-shingle the roof. I don't think we thought about who was going to move into the other place, we just upkept it. My family was one of the families who didn't leave the state, so things like that naturally fell to our responsibility. Over the years, the place slowly started to be less secure- some raccoons moved into the attic, a skunk got into the basement, a vandal (way out in the middle of nowhere?) broke a window to get in and try to steal something (though there wasn't much to steal at that point.)
Years have taken their toll on the Other Place, and it's getting dangerous to visit it. The siding is long gone, and the walls are little more than slats of wood in some places- the floors and ceilings dangerous, too. Holes gaped in the floor and debris lay there in the basement. There was a ladder, propped up into one of the holes in the ceiling up to the second floor, but the state of the floors and ceilings were precarious and I was alone and unwilling to climb if I had no one to go and call an ambulance if I fell through and hurt myself.
I've been into the house at the Other Place a number of times in its decrepitude- another heavy winter will make me unwilling to risk myself into it again. The old White Barn (the Red Barn was painted white years ago, but we must differentiate somehow, so it is still the Red Barn in spite of its whiteness) has a vile lean on it, and is kept from falling entirely by supports. Rural midwest is for me, the proof of strength of time, weather, and nature on man's structures. Decaying barns and farmhouses are a regular sight. They sink inward from the roofs, crumble from one end to another, or slowly lean like Pisa until they come moaning into a crash. The house at the Other Place still stands upright, though the wind blows right through- I don't know how this ghost will finally crumble, but I most definitely feel like I have tresspassed its time.
The Other Place
Snowy in winter, you can see where the porch was.
Hatted grandfather with aunt, 1945
Here is my grandfather, handsome in a fedora, holding his first child on the front porch of the Other Place. Grampa is gone now, but his ghost is everywhere on that farm.
Grampa and Aunt, 1946
Here is that handsome ghost again, sitting on the front porch of the Other Place, with a woman who is now a grandmother herself on his knee.
Mother and Aunt, 1948
Here is my mother in a buggy with my aunt standing by. We were all young once, even houses and homesteads.
Aunt on the Porch, 1948
My grandmother and grandfather moved into their own house, just down the road around this time, and so there are more pictures of their own home and fewer of the Other Place. My grandmother was the family photographer, and showed up in few pictures.
The Other Place, 2008
The approach. There was a time when there were large trees around the house- their stumps are hidden in the tall grass.
Front Door, 2008
The approach, roughly 60 years after the photographs of my grandfather, aunt, and mother.
Porch Support
Hints at what used to be a loved farmhouse.
Turtle
On the porch were the remains of a chair or stool, and the shell of a turtle, probably brought there by a raccoon.
Ceiling.
There were occasional holes in the ceiling, and I wondered had someone or something fallen through?
Floor
Here it was as if the boards were ripped up intentionally, to get at the pipes.
Chimney
The chimney in the kitchen was once attached to a wood-burning stove. The Other Place, mostly gutted, has now a pile of bricks hanging against the wall like a neck with no body.
Jeri's Talc
And yet, gutted as the place was, there was a cabinet with a few drawers with memories of years past.
Vacation Bible School
Elgin, Illinois now also boasts a punk band named "Vacation Bible School". http://www.myspace.com/vacationbibleschool
Leaflet
This was a church handout from January - February 1966.
Attic
Another hole in the ceiling. The roof looks pretty sound, though.
Cokes and Plaster
In South Dakota, we call these pop. It's a bit surprising to find these, as we weren't much of a soda-drinking family.
Livingroom and Kitchen
Airy.
Wall.
This wall was almost nonexistent.
Outlet
There was something strange about this outlet on the wall where there was barely any wall.
Floorboards
Pipes.
Ladder
I was torn, seeing this. Could I climb the ladder? Could I even get over to that side of the room without falling through the floor? What was that creaking sound?
Screen Door
Finally, it was time to leave- I could hear my mom calling me for lunch from the other house. You can see that this door is the same one in some of the old pictures of folks on the porch at the house.
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Haberley Mead
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Not Here No More
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help im a bear
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I wish I had a photograph of the snow up to the second story- even one bad South Dakota snowstorm could probably be the end of this place. Two years ago the farm had 20 foot drifts. Combine that with wind? I don't think I'm being pessimistic.
Beautiful.
Now I just got a totally depressing idea for this task that I will never do.
whenever i see someone write 'Perhaps I've done this wrong,' at the beginning of a praxis description, it inevitably ends up amazing.
Ten years might be a little pessimistic, but the thought of losing a place that's meant that much to you in the past is a very inspiring one. Nice work, though it's a shame you had a chance to complete it this way.