I'm not sure when our house was built, but I know it's over 100 years old.
The Danielsons raised five kids here during the Great Depression.
Five kids. In 1000 square feet.
There were two other owners between then and now, but to all the old-timers around here it'll always be the Danielson Farm.
I often think about them.
Like when the broken handle of a tea cup emerged from the garden soil after a hard rain, a tiny art nouveau rouge tin appeared by the barn, and the bottom of a blue canning jar was unearthed down by the creek.
It makes for dangerous barefooting, but also interesting history.
Mostly I think about her.
When I'm canning tomatoes or tucking children in for the night.
When I'm in the garden, filling my basket with green beans or hanging laundry on the line.
When I look out on the same hills and the same mist and the same creek she did when I pause from my day.
Our lives share the same stage.
And then today Pete went into the attic to work on the chimney and found a handful of treasures tucked up in the ceiling by a young Lewis Danielson.
A voided check from the Soldiers Grove Bank.
An empty spool of thread.
A newspaper clipping from 1925.
A stash of handmade valentines, likely collected during on a cold winter day at the one room schoolhouse just up the road.
And this small collection of treasures is at once fascinating and humbling.
Because some day we, too, will be just stories pieced together from what we left behind.
Time is swift.
When I shared this story a friend suggested that we make our own time capsule and tuck it into the attic or a wall. A ziplock bag stapled to the rafters or a mason jar tucked in the crawl space, filled with our story – a letter, some photographs, keepsakes, and treasures – for someone to find 100 years from now.
When, perhaps, this place is known as the Wolf Family farm.
I think we will.