The Atomic Family and the North Forty

Guns were drawn, the players determined to settle the game. It’s a historic picture, one of my favorites. Uncle Don sneering and Uncle Bill yelling, fooling around at the North Forty, circa 1965, “Pollyanna to the Death". It captures some of the essence of my version of modern family history.

My Grampaw and Mamaw Hemphill dwelled in that white house with the long front porch at that rural corner fifteen miles from Marion. It was the gathering place of the seven children of Hicks and Nell and a large collection of grandchildren. In the context of my atomic family, that particle existed only from the earliest to last memory of the place, roughly 16 years, 1956 to 1972. The small piece of earth on which that house sat is still there, but the house is long gone. I recently tramped around the weedy ground looking for an artifact and found only the concrete cover of the well. It was an amazingly small piece of space – far too small to contain my memories. The house is gone, along with my Grampaw, Mamaw, Dad, Mom, Uncle Walt and Uncle Carroll. The other key people of that place are in or approaching the twilight.

In this morning’s waking contemplation, I wondered about how the North Forty got its name, what it even means. I know the phrase ‘north forty” is not unique, so I googled it. How’s that for juxtaposition – googling north forty? Apparently, the phrase dates back to at least the mid-nineteenth century when a homesteader’s 160 acres of land was divided into four equal quadrants of 40 acres, thus generating named places like North Forty, South Forty and Back Forty. The urban dictionary says north forty means “way the hell out there”. Side note: My mamaw would not approve of “hell” appearing in this essay. She told me so when I was thirteen.

I don’t know the longer history of our North Forty, just that Uncle Don acquired it from the Nanny family before my memory came into play; so, before that place was our North Forty, it was the Nanny Place. At some point in my early childhood, Uncle Don moved from the Nanny Place to another family home on Cove Road and, I suppose, because the Nanny Place remained a part of his holdings and it was somewhat northward of the house on Cove Road, he began referring to it as the North Forty.

In the orbit of my atomic family, the North Forty has a much longer physical presence than Grampaw’s house at the corner of Cove Road and Greasy Creek – 50 plus years as opposed to 16 years. Since I was a teenager, Uncle Don has maintained the North Forty as a kind of family retreat. In the decade of the Sixties we gathered there for Thanksgiving meals, board games and rabbit hunting. It became a nucleus for it’s own atomic family encompassing multiple lines and generations. Since the Sixties it has hosted gatherings small and large for birthdays, anniversaries, smoking barbecue and molasses making. There is still a functioning farmhouse with kitchen, bathroom, furniture and the famous “Pollyanna to the Death” photograph. If there is such a thing as the nucleus of a nucleus, it might be my Great Uncle Don, still a sharp wit at the age of 92.

Warning: here comes one of the benefits of writing. This morning I was amazed at how fleeting life seemed. In my mind, that porch (with all the jokes, gossip, teasing and tales swapped by those who propped themselves on chairs and leaned back with their feet on the bannister) has lasted forever. But the place only existed for 16 years – maybe an eternity when I was 14, but just a blip in time to a much older man. But now, as I write this, I feel it profoundly and see it clearly. Who knows how long an atomic family lasts? It is not a physical thing, like a real atom. At some point the atomic family as metaphor falters. But the atomic family as reality lives as long a memory can hold it.