There's a road in Hocking County, Ohio, near the city
of Union Furnace, named Goat Run Honey Fork Road. My grandfather was born in
1900 in a house in Union Furnace that can be seen from the main crossroad in
town.
In 2000, I visited the man who lived in the house. I just pulled into the driveway and he was sitting in his porch swing. His son came over from the trailer next door and we all talked about the house and living there.
The old man said he bought the house in 1938. He said the people he bought it from had lived there for years, but he did not know if it was they who might have bought it from my grandfather's family.
I showed them the picture of my grandfather standing in front of the house at eight years old, all dressed up with his family. The house looked almost the same.
The son took me into the house and I remember it was dark and old. The wood floor was thin slats, almost black, and seemed to be warped throughout the house. Everything looked like it had not been updated in a hundred years.
Out back, I remember how green it was. This is Ohio and there is plenty of rain to keep it green. The dark woods ran up the hill on the other side of the broken-down stone wall and wood fence.
Back out front, I said goodbye to the old man, his son and daughter-in-law.
They said to come back anytime. Here's my poem about the experience.
In 2000, I visited the man who lived in the house. I just pulled into the driveway and he was sitting in his porch swing. His son came over from the trailer next door and we all talked about the house and living there.
The old man said he bought the house in 1938. He said the people he bought it from had lived there for years, but he did not know if it was they who might have bought it from my grandfather's family.
I showed them the picture of my grandfather standing in front of the house at eight years old, all dressed up with his family. The house looked almost the same.
The son took me into the house and I remember it was dark and old. The wood floor was thin slats, almost black, and seemed to be warped throughout the house. Everything looked like it had not been updated in a hundred years.
Out back, I remember how green it was. This is Ohio and there is plenty of rain to keep it green. The dark woods ran up the hill on the other side of the broken-down stone wall and wood fence.
Back out front, I said goodbye to the old man, his son and daughter-in-law.
They said to come back anytime. Here's my poem about the experience.
Goat Run Honey Fork Road
I got lost on Goat Run Honey Fork Road.
Who has stopped in Union Furnace in summer
Finds routine that denies complexity.
My stopping interrupted the simplicity.
He watches the world from his porch swing
At the four-way crossing that is the town.
I show him the yellowed photograph, faded hard
Of my grandfather, eight-years-old, in this yard.
The house is unchanged, save for the trees.
Even the porch sets the same after one hundred years.
The walls need painting, and wood floors, waxed in grime,
Make a slanting walk falling me back in time.
Out back is lush green with woods encroaching
As to attack and devour the man-made glade.
I search the defending rock wall for a stone;
A remembrance of this time alone.
I leave him to resume his porch swing duties,
And thanking me for interrupting his day.
He says come again when I'm down this way.
If I can find Goat Run Honey Fork Road, I may.
