Ten Years Later: The Vision Unfolds
Monongahela County, West Virginia
Walkingfeather:
It 
was a hot summer day in 1950, a day when I stood in front of an old farmhouse in the shade of large maple trees. No one lived in the house and I had never been there before. I didn’t know then who owned the house and the surrounding land. A college friend and I had found the place by chance. Driving on an old state route from Fairmont, we decided, on the spur of the moment, to turn left on a narrow country road. The winding road led us into a valley of wide rolling fields and wind-swept grasses bordered by low mountain ridges to the south and north. It felt oddly familiar.
We spotted the old farmhouse and decided it would be a nice place to relax and study. My friend fell asleep under a great maple tree in the backyard and I walked to the front of the empty house and looked up at the doorway. The faded yellow paint on the large door had cracked and peeled. The curved brass doorknocker was tarnished and the glass panes in the large windows to the left and right of the door were shattered. A feeling of sadness swept over me for I could see beauty where the decay had set in.
A 
bright sun sparkled through the trees and a breeze touched my face. Birds sang and the air smelled of fresh-cut hay. The yard and garden beds were unkempt and overgrown, yet I felt the peace of the deep country atmosphere as I gazed at the doorway of the farmhouse. The old house suddenly looked different. The pale yellow paint on the wall planks of the house became smooth and clean, and I saw curtains hanging inside the shiny open windows. The grass was cut, the yard neat and tidy; flowers filled the garden beds in the front yard and I heard people chatting inside the house.
In place of my pastel dress, I wore a silky blouse and a tweed wool skirt that dropped to the tops of black-laced hob-nail boots. A single strand of pearls hung around my neck. My hair was no longer autumn red. It was brown and pulled up and piled on top of my head. Still struggling to recover from shock, I saw the house change again. Now as an older woman in a dark housedress, I stood in front of a construction site. I was slightly bent at the waist and my left hand rested on my hip for support.
Bearded workmen busied themselves framing the first floor of the house. A small group of men poured molten iron into molds, creating the three different kinds of nails that would be used in the construction. Behind me, young apprentices sat in the shade of the trees whittling pegs that would hold the massive oak beams in place. I sensed that I was sick and would die before the house was completed.
Again the scene changed. The house disappeared. My body took the form of a young male warrior, muscled, lean, and brown. Dressed only in a loincloth, my long black hair fell loosely down my back. I paused at the crest of a hill to view the rolling meadowland while breathing in the scent of the air and listening intently to the rushing stream. The virgin forest that covered the distant mountains felt familiar and mysterious.
Other scenes rapidly appeared and disappeared. Then a building came into view, Moroccan in appearance, elegant in its simplicity, and topped by a smooth dome. My form changed again. I was lithe and supple and stood well over six feet. The soft crème color of a loose-fitting blouse and wide-flowing skirt emphasized and enhanced the natural beauty of my coppery skin and long rust-red hair. As I looked through this woman’s eyes I noticed stairs to the right.
A large jardinière filled with bright, vibrant flowers stood near the bottom step. As I glanced at the flowers, warmth spread through my entire body, slowly melting away all my tensions. I climbed the steps to a landing and noticed another broad set of steps to a terrace that spanned the entire width of the building. A large arched entranceway led to the interior of the structure. I wanted desperately to stay in that reality, but suddenly it all dissolved, and I was back facing the old ramshackle farmhouse.
Above me the great maples swayed, their green leaves a shimmering canopy. Astonished and bewildered, I stared at the house. The earth and sky rotated as I tried to grasp what had happened. The swirling impressions of landscapes and people continued to race through my mind and it was only the thought of my friend sleeping under the maple tree in the backyard that brought me back to the circumstances at hand. Though dazed and disoriented, I walked back to my sleeping friend and woke him. It never occurred to me to talk to him or anyone else about what had happened. In fact, it would be years before I shared my experience…
In the spring of 1953 I married a local man whose family had acquired over 2,000 acres of land in the Morgantown/Fairmont area during the Great Depression of the 1930s. One afternoon, shortly after we were married, I went with him to feed cattle at a farm his family owned, a farm that he referred to as the “Draker’s farm.
As we drove down a dirt road on his tractor a tingling sense of familiarity came over me, followed by an intense rush of excitement. At the moment we turned into the driveway of the house, I knew that this farmhouse was the place of my vision. I had found it again and I knew immediately that I wanted to live there. In time we did make the farm our home and lived there for 44 years together. Continue to Chapter Three