On the far edge of our farm, deep in the forest, sits an ancient boundary wall made of piled stones. Constructed when property lines were first drawn centuries ago, it has stood the test of time. Through spring, summer, autumn, and frosty winter, year after year, it stands as a silent sentinel to the ages. The boundary is far enough into the forest that only a few from the owners of each parcel of land has ever seen its quiet solitude. A stream flows next to it and beyond it. Even as a youth, I only attempted to pass this barrier beyond our property to explore where the stream came from deep into the forest on the opposite side. The stream was wide and beautiful as well as inviting beyond the wall. It was as if the stone wall marked not only the edge of our property line but the very edge of my comfort zone. I was anxious the entire time I had ventured beyond the wall as if someone were watching and knew I was not meant to be beyond the edifice.
In my grandfather’s day, someone
must have tried to build a barbed-wire fence to further demarcate the area as a
boundary. Today, while the stone wall seems ageless, the more modern fence has
rusted and has broken in whole sections. I had always imagined the wall as
holding times secrets. Notes having been stuffed into the crevices only to be
ready decades or centuries later.
I
find peace in the idea of the old rock wall. In its seeming permeance and
strength, even if in reality it could be destroyed with a sledgehammer or a
bulldozer. Its presence is more than physical but creates the very edge of my
childhood memories where I have only passed beyond once. This ancient sentinel
is a guardian to the childhood, a protector, a silent preceptor.
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