It was the late 1960s in Todd County, Kentucky—a time when life moved a little slower, and the world felt as simple as the dirt under your boots. My grandparents’ farm was my slice of heaven. Their place sprawled across rolling pastures and tobacco patches, where cows grazed lazily under open skies, and the air always carried a faint, sweet smell of freshly turned earth. But my favorite place was the back place—a quiet pasture nestled in the embrace of thick woods and a winding stream. It was my sanctuary, a place where I could escape and just be me. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, and I loved nothing more than being alone in the back place, wading barefoot in the cool, clear creek or lying in the middle of the field. I’d stare at the sky for hours, watching the clouds drift by, forming castles, horses, and all the shapes my imagination could dream up.
One of my favorite memories was walking down the old lane with Grandma—the one that led to the black gum tree at the far edge of the back place. That lane was magical in its own quiet way, lined by a crooked, rusty barbed-wire fence that seemed to stretch on forever. A row of weathered trees stood sentry beside it, their branches arching overhead like nature’s cathedral. The ground was a mix of scattered sandstone pebbles and dirt, worn smooth by tractor tires, with sprigs of stubborn grass pushing up through the tracks. Even now, all I have to do is close my eyes, and I’m there again, as clear as if no time has passed.
Grandma always carried a little folding knife in her apron pocket, ready for anything. As we strolled down the shaded lane, she’d cut through the stillness with her stories about the “good old days.” She’d tell me about when her children were young and the farm was bustling with life or about how she and Grandpa had worked side by side, building a life out of sweat and dreams. Her voice, soft but steady, painted pictures of a time that felt distant yet alive in her words. Those stories made me feel as though I was walking not just with her but with generations of my family, stretching back through time.
When we reached the black gum tree, Grandma would pull out her knife and carefully cut a small limb. “Best toothbrush there is,” she’d say with a knowing smile, slipping the twig between her teeth and chewing it methodically. She swore it left her teeth cleaner than anything you could buy in a store, and I believed her because, well, she was Grandma. Watching her chew that gum limb felt like witnessing a tradition. As we would turn around and walk back to the house her voice carried the weight of the past, but it felt light when she spoke, as if sharing these memories made her heart a little less burdened. Walking beside her, I felt as though I were collecting pieces of a treasure, one story at a time, to keep and carry with me forever. By the time we reached the house, the sun would be lower, the shadows longer, and I’d be holding onto her every word, wishing the stories—and the walks—could last just a little bit longer.
Now, all these years later, I’d give anything to walk that lane with Grandma again, to hear her stories one more time, to feel the warmth of her hand in mine as we strolled beneath the canopy of trees.
The farm is gone now, and the old lane exists only in my memory. But it’s a memory that shines like sunlight through the branches, forever rooted in my heart. I miss those days more than words can say—the way life felt so full, so rich, even in its simplicity. If heaven exists, and I know it does, I hope it looks a lot like that farm, with Grandma waiting in the lane, ready to take another walk down to the old black gum tree.
Daisy Watkins Bivens. 1916–1989