A sense of mystery

Sometimes it’s a place. My grandparents had a farm in Albert County, New Brunswick. It was a modest holding, but it supported them throughout their lives.

Photo by Ruth Ricker LeBlanc

When I was little, and we would visit, I always thought the house was huge. It’s all a matter of perspective. Sadly, after my grandparents died, the house fell into disrepair. Now it’s reduced even further to nothing but a pile of rubble, hidden in the overgrowth. Still, the oak trees my father planted as acorns when he was a young boy, and that are now 100+ years old, stand sentinel along the sloping driveway.

Today children exploring the property would probably describe it as ‘spooky’, but it holds many happy memories for me and, no doubt, for the cousins I played with during my visits. We’re all scattered to the winds now – but manage to keep in touch at least occasionally.

What will happen to the property? It remains a mystery.

1 thought on “A sense of mystery

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