Rural Banter

Author: ERICA GOODMAN

I have always had a fascination with maps. The land we call our Earth has been reproduced infinite times in bold colors and hundreds of languages. Maps can tell us anything from the distance from Detroit to Memphis, to the principal commodity of Kazakhstan. Sometimes they lead us back into history, sketching the paths of memorialized battles or recording the borders of nations that no longer exist.

Still, no matter how many intricate graphics populate the page, these smooth paper surfaces are far too minuscule to capture the true story of any place. History is lost when space is downsized to a single dimension; the memories attached to the actual land run far deeper than the ink of unnatural borders.

To refresh your memory, this fall my uncles sold the Goodman farm to an enterprising youth summer soccer camp company, "Adirondack Golden Goal: The World's Most Unique Soccer Experience." I have slowly come to terms with the notion that the economic advantages for a struggling community that such an undertaking will foster might be equally important as preserving the ethics of hard work, family connection and selfless dedication that are grown on small family farms. But more recently, my thoughts have lent toward nostalgia. You see, on their Web page, Adirondack Golden Goal has posted an illustration of the upcoming project, their own map of what the cornfields are set to look like. The map shows a different story than what quietly rested over the farmland, a place that having once been home to the town's 1971 founder, stands as the backbone of this rural community. The buildings and soccer turf colorfully drawn in the illustration fail to show the true stories that lie beneath the soil.

Soon, children will no longer be able to go sledding down one of the best hills in the town without thumping into the back of a dormitory. Where November floods once left a winter skating rink, families will soon be able to dine together in the Pepsi Fun Zone. Halfway Creek, site of many a fishing expedition, will be bordered by practice fields and a soccer camp hall of fame. The land where generations of Goodmans learned to plant seeds and harvest a bountiful crop is to be smothered by parking lot cement and artificial turf. Sunday picnics, horseback rides, births and deaths and sweat and tears are all to be buried beneath a collection of sterile buildings.

However saddening the loss of these moments may be, it is a reality that my family and I must welcome. The picturesque view from our home is quickly being altered while the map of the future takes shape. But what each map lacks are the layers that make a life. We cannot hold on to the past forever, yet I wish that there were still more than a flimsy piece of paper and dots of ink on a page to show the heart and soul surrounding a place.