The Farmhouse

I continue to mourn loss of the Wilcox farm—the majority of which my father unexpectedly deeded to the pastors of his church during the last weeks of life. He died on April 16, 2024.

The deeding deed was kept secret from immediate family until after he had passed. I attempted to contact the main pastor—twice. He ignored me. Inaction has shaped, or reshaped, my perspective about the incident, which won’t be publicly shared here.

Let’s talk the property as my Nana fondly recalled it. The old house in the Featured Image is the one she writes about in her poem. That remembrance, like the photo (sent by my cousin Dan today), is from the 1970s. About 20 years later, my father unceremoniously demolished the house where he grew up. He moved in a trailer—oh, yeah, the current vernacular is manufactured home. He removed the circular driveway and made many other changes that diminished much of the homestead’s character. The cropland, about 60 acres, is the only vestige that really remains.

The gentleman walking toward the photographer is my father’s good friend Steve Patten. I don’t know whether or not he still lives. Behind, on the VW minibus, you can just make out “Falls Brook Rangers”—name of the fishing-hunting group organized by the two Wilcox brothers and companions like Steve. For a little more insight, see my missive: “Somewhere Between Dickey and Rivière-Bleue

Wrapping up, if there is justice in the afterlife, my grandfather, uncle, and a long line of ancestors greeted my father upon arrival—to beat the crap out of him. He wasted the family legacy, and nobody should be happy about that.

Photo Credit: Glenn Wilcox