Louise's Utopia: The Forgotten Coteau Memories Whisper In The Wind

This Sunday at Coteau Valley Farm, we all took a nice Sunday drive. It was entirely relaxing and dreamlike. The weather was perfect on the Coteau, with a warm wind. There were blue skies and views as far as the eye could see on the flat plateau of the prairie.

We came across this gorgeous old farm, which lies not too far from our own house. As we drove past this shockingly beautiful old home, my brain had to play catch-up with my eyes. Just for the love of the view alone. We slowed down and stopped! We backed up the car on the gravel road just far enough to get a better view of the home and take a picture.

I was fascinated and entranced by the possibilities of the life that happened in this homestead. Who had lived here? What events had occurred in the old weathered home?

From the road, I could see that a door on the cabin was methodically flapping in the wind. It seemed a little spooky. Almost as if the past occupants were beckoning me to come inside their home for a closer look. I actually really wanted to take the "offer," but we stayed on the road and snapped the shot with the camera.

The colors of the Fall season and the contrasting, old, weathered wood of the home created a quintessential look into a forgotten past. I wondered if anyone still knew anything about who lived there and when the house was built. What sort of lives did the inhabitants live? They must have been pretty tough, as the winters here on the Coteau, without modern equipment, would definitely have been paralyzing. I would love to know more about their experiences on the farm. I personally like to imagine all the different hardships they may have endured on the Coteau.

During the Depression and Dust Bowl, many families packed up and left everything behind in search of a new life out west. If that was the case, it seems ironic that their house survived and still stands. God only knows at this point exactly what they endured there, if any family actually lived the rugged life in the cabin that I presume they lived. I am sure stories of this home's past linger in certain circles, family, and possibly old friends or neighbors. But their life stories, the real meat of it, have been forgotten or never known. Just as with everyone's life, the finer details will fade, and old stories will be told less.

The memories all still whisper in the wind like a dancing melody. The forgotten stories lie inside an old flapping door that beckons to anyone. It dares the passerby to take a closer look. But we keep driving ahead, and most do not even stop to wonder. We all go on, forging our own days that too will fade into the wind, leaving only the prairie and God alone to know what the voices of the not-so-long-ago past really uttered.