Honey Creek Acres

I am lying awake in my bed listening to the sounds of insects being zapped outside in my neighbour's yard. It's unsettling but familiar in the sense that it reminds me of lying awake listening to the bug zapper at my grandparents' old house in Ada, Michigan. It's a beautiful little town near Grand Rapids. I have a few pictures but they'll take some digging up. I'll share what I have at my immediate disposal (read: Interwebs) right now.

*UPDATED! Pics of Honey Creek Acres apres le jump*

 The covered bridge over the Thornapple River via Webshots

A view of the Grand River via Wiki Commons

Their place was called Honey Creek Acres and I am not exaggerating when I say that I miss it more than I miss my own home. Or any other place I've ever been.

The bridge connecting their property to the dirt road. I almost lost a shoe on this bridge.

Ferns growing to the right of the bridge. View from the road. I can't find a pic of the sign but I will be sure to hunt one down.

They sold it recently to a real estate developer whom I hope will respect the beauty of the land the house is built on. My hopes aren't all that high though-apparently he was a bit of a...ok I won't go into it here. Also I don't think I could bear to drive by and find that a McMansion had been build on the hill that my grandparents' ranch-style house had been :( So although we all realized the necessity of the sale, it has broken the heart of every single member of my family. Its hard for my mom to even reminisce without getting emotional and I don't blame her-so many of my own best and most poignant memories seem to have attached themselves permanently to that place.

I remember the burbling of the creek and the shine of the copper fireplace in the kitchen and the smell of wet grass in the morning and the sound of cicadas buzzing in the field on hot summer afternoons. I remember crouching near the screen doors with my sister to get a glimpse of a family of deer without scaring them, attempting to climb the crabapple tree, and roaming "the back 40" in search of arrowheads or flowers to press. I remember hearing the chiming of the grandfather clock from the other end of the house, playing with the mirrored doors of my grandparents' medicine cabinet and watching my own reflection multiply into infinity. I remember races at breakneck speed from one end of the house to the other, bounching on giant rubber balls, skipping stones and scaring frogs on the banks of the creek. I remember standing on the little island in the middle of rushing water and feeling that even though I was right next to the road, I was totally connected to nature.

I wish we'd been able to do something with the the kitchen fireplace. I've never seen anything like it.

Honey Creek runs quite a ways up the road as well as through my grandparents' property.

Lily of the valley grow rampant on the grounds. And myrtle. Lots of myrtle.

As you can see it's in a very heavily forested area. The trees are so old they bend towards each other on both sides of the road, making a sort of emerald green tunnel :)

The tiny little island :)

I'll post some other pics that better illustrate this effect.

The "back 40" as my mom used to call it. You can see one of the crabapple trees in the foreground. A fave haunt of several families of deer and the occasional wild turkey.

Lilac blossoms on the trees that surround the pool.

Crabapple blossoms.

Finally, I remember the crackling and crunching sound of gravel hitting the sides of the car when we turned onto Conservation, the rumbling of the wooden bridge just before we finally pulled into the driveway, and the distinct chlorine-y/mildewy smell of mothballs which filled your nostrils the second you stepped in the door. Those last three things were and still are my favourite memories of Honey Creek Acres because they let you know you were home. I always thought of my grandparent's house as a second home. I imagine that many people do.

The dirt and gravel road

One of the iron owls that used to be on each side of the bridge. No one knows how they came to be there or how old they are. I used to be afraid of them as a kid but now I love them. Apologies for terrible photo.

Anyhow it's 2:30 am and I can't seem to wind my brain down. I keep thinking about how growing up seems to involve so many doors closing on things I love even though new ones are appearing as well. I am also thinking about how many grammatical errors I've looked over in my state of exhaustion. I think we tend to mythologize so many things connected to our childhoods because we miss the feelings of wonder, security and happiness. My childhood wasn't perfect but it was for the most part a happy one, and many of those happy memories were made at my grandparents' house. I know this all sounds cheesy as hell, and that my sentiments have been expressed by many writers both better or worse than me, but I'll stand by them. I miss this place, and I hope that one day I'll be able to call it home again.