The Upper Place Pt. 1

     Up to this point, I have referenced a parcel of land that has belonged to the family for generations in various writings; it is called ‘The Upper Place.’ I am not sure when the family originally came to own the land, though it is clear that my great-great-grandfather Mack owned it in the late 1800s. 

     The Upper Place is not an easy-to-access location. You must drive along narrow dirt roads with many left and right turns. Much of the way is lined with dense woods of maple, oak, and cherry trees. The ground is thick with underbrush. Pacing along, you occasionally will see a trailer here or a doublewide there. Often, much of the belongings overflow from the homes into the yards. Driving by, the thought comes up of what it is like for the children that live in these places. Do they have running water? Access to the internet? 

     Eventually, you come to the original path that veered left off the dirt road and head up through the wooded hillside. There is a chain fence that blocks the path; in some ways, it is more for the safety of the individual who is attempting to access the path rather than keeping them out. The path leading up the hill has become washed out, with deep ruts that make driving on it with a regular vehicle impossible. Following the winding lane, you eventually come to a place where the hills and woods begin to open up, and before long, you are looking at the open sides of the hill that you have been climbing. To your left, the land seems to flatten off and is cleared. Tall grass and weeds inhabit the area—the trees and woods guard the edge as it circles around the rest of the hill. Some might describe the area as a ‘bench’ since the hill continues higher. Following the path, you pass by a dense clump of trees you can barely see through. In the middle of that clump is a small pond overrun with cattails.  Eventually, you are greeted with the top of the hill, the top of the Upper Place. Standing there, a breeze greets you as you look out across the land. The Upper Place is one of the tallest points in Clarion County. Slowly, one might turn around in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circle, peering out across the land. It is an area that might be described as extreme. Either cold and blowing or dreadfully hot. This simply is due to the exposure. There are very few trees. 

     Often, I have stood still at the top of that hill, listening to the breeze, wondering if the gentle breeze might bring the sounds of the years- gone- by bailing hay or the lowing of cattle in the pasture. Like many other stories you have read by authors, I allow my imagination to take over. Imagining my grandfather walking this way or that way. Possibly, his mother or one of his sisters doing the same. 

     Irene, my Great-Grandmother, was Mack Reichart's only child. Her mother, Maude, passed away when she was only six years old, and her father, not knowing what to do with his daughter and overwhelmed with grief, farmed her out to family members. During this time, he himself worked his way out to California and then back. Upon returning, he remarried, and the family, including Irene, settled back into the Upper Place. Together, Mack and Irene ran the farm. 

     Through the course of days and years, you might find Irene riding the upper side of the binder on the hillsides above the barn while her father drove a three-horse team. This happened so that the binder would not be upset. It was hard and dangerous work, but you farmed where you could, whether flat or vertical. When Irene was not working in the fields, you might find her chasing cattle through the thorn brush below the barn or cleaning dirty diapers on the back porch as the family grew. Before long, she had a stepbrother and sister. She was told that if she obeyed the rules and did her work assignments without ‘squawking,’ she would eventually be reunited with her mother, which she deeply yearned for. It was not an easy life for a kid. Not only this, but it also must have been lonely.