The words and images on this post were originally assembled in late-April, 2022 and shared only with family members. The names of non-family members referenced in this post have been changed and the story about them abbreviated for this public reposting of the walkabout.
As I often do when traveling near and through Philadelphia, NY, I decided to check in on the dairy farm formerly owned and operated by my Grandparents, Beatrice and Merrill Tryon. They had moved away from the farm many years ago and as the years passed since that time, the once-loved and meticulously maintained farm gradually declined. Each trip I make past the farm floods me with wonderful memories and simultaneously breaks my heart to see what now remains. This particular visit was especially painful.
Moments before I arrived at the deserted house in late April, 2022, I passed a group of four people standing in the driveway across the street. My car was moving so slowly at that point, I assumed I had probably triggered their suspicions. I parked at the end of my grandparent’s driveway, got out of my car, and slowly walked toward their old garage, expecting that one or more of the onlookers would show up and start asking me questions or try to chase me off the property.
I wasn’t disappointed: A minute or two later, all four of them walked up the driveway toward me.
They were somber and clearly suspicious of me. I walked toward them, introducing myself as I did, making it clear that I was the grandson of Bea and Merrill Tryon. They didn’t respond in any way at first so I kept talking, camera in hand, reminiscing about the farm, describing some of the things I remembered from my childhood visits, and dropping some family names to support my story and justify my curiosity-fueled and innocent trespassing.
Finally they engaged in some light conversation and I learned that they were related to Jane Smith, the woman who had purchased the farm from my grandparents. They were Jane’s daughters Alice and Sally, Jeff Smith (Jane’s ex-husband), and Sally’s boyfriend who never introduced himself, never spoke, and never stopped glaring at me.
As they finally revealed, and what explained their clearly somber and suspicious mood, the present owner of the farm, Jane Smith, had passed away just two days before. They had been standing in the driveway across the street as they watched me drive by, talking with each other after having just completed the digging of Jane’s grave in their family cemetery on their property Jeff still held a shovel in his hands (which he held in front of him throughout my discussion with them). They had assumed my arrival was related to Jane’s death and the ownership of the property.
After several minutes trying to reduce their concerns about me, they seemed to understand that I was simply curious and they began to engage in some very light conversation. Jeff contributed that he knew my Uncle from their days in High School, a grade or two apart from each other. Alice and Sally both shared that they remembered playing in the front yard of the farmhouse with my cousins.
Alice had been doing most of the talking and eventually she started walking toward the farmhouse with me following close behind. The others turned around and headed back across the street, clearly still suspicious of me, but apparently trusting that Alice was looking out for their interests.
As we headed toward the house, Alice explained that her mother’s poor health had forced her to vacate the house many years before and move into Alice’s trailer located next door to the farmhouse. Alice also shared quite a story about her own career as a company award-winning employee and how she had ultimately been fired from her job because she had to stay home to care for her mother. Alice blamed the current condition of the house on a man named John who had been recommended by a family friend as someone who could move into the house with Jane (by now, divorced from Jeff) and take care of the farm. John turned out to be a hoarder and completely unable to care for anything. Alice shared that out of frustration, Jane would periodically kick John out of the house, but then allow him to come back a week or two later after tempers cooled down.
Alice also stated several times that the condition of the house, which clearly embarrassed her, was entirely the fault of “the cat” that John had allowed to live in the house. However, as her story evolved over the time I was there, that one cat turned out to be literally countless cats, all living in the house. John, the caretaker, poured cat litter and cat food directly on the floors for them and did absolutely nothing to clean up the resulting mess, or to restrain his hoarding behaviors.
Eventually, I was able to convinced Alice that I had no malicious intent and she agreed to let me into the house to look around and take some pictures.
During the hour (or so) that I was in the house, there was not one time that I actually stepped on the floor as it was literally buried under debris. I was only able to capture one photograph of the floor in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was the only time I actually saw the floor in the time I was there. I remembered the pattern on the linoleum from years ago.
I don’t know exactly what I was walking on anywhere in the house because it was fairly dark. But countless cats, over a decade or more, using the floor as their source of food and cat litter, combined with a smell that nearly dropped me to my knees when Alice first opened the front door, can perhaps open your imagination to the appalling experience that went along with these photos and what might have been under my feet.
Some of the photos are slight duplicates. Alice was so very embarrassed about the condition of the house that I was somewhat reluctant to be constantly snapping photos. So knowing this was probably a one-time opportunity, I photographed as casually as I could make it feel. Armed with my standard walkabout camera in one hand (a Fujifilm X100v) and my iPhone in the other, I took many duplicates in case one camera or the other wasn’t able to properly capture the scene in the available light.
Before I left, Alice shared that the house was in her mother’s name and that she didn’t know what would happen to it now that her mother had died. She presumed it would be left to her and her sister.
The cats are now gone. Alice explained that she had invested considerable time (months) chasing them out, trapping them, and even shooting some of them. She also asked me several times if I thought it would be much work to bring the house back to its original condition. I finally suggested that perhaps the Philadelphia Volunteer Fire Department might appreciate the opportunity to conduct a full-scale training exercise. That would be a sad day, but might also be the genesis of new life for the land and another family’s wonderful memories.
The photographs below document my walkabout through the family farmhouse.
Previous Visit
On June 25, 2021, I was also at the farm. These are the photos from that brief visit. The barn collapsed long ago, leaving only the very top of the silo visible over the overgrowth of the yard.
Some History
I have a collection of old slides, some of which I periodically find time to turn into digital images. The images below are related to my Grandparent’s farm.
This is Beatrice and Merrill Tryon, my Grandparents. They are standing on the front lawn of the farmhouse (to their right). This photo was probably captured in the late 1960’s-early 1970’s, and based on what they are wearing, probably on a Sunday before or after church.
The barn, captured from the front porch of the farmhouse (on a clearly cold Winter day). Probably taken in the early 1970’s. My Grandfather and Father (foreground) trying to start my Father’s first new car, a Chevrolet station wagon. Likely, temporarily disabled by the cold temperatures.
The barn during a Summer month.
My brother (left in each image) and I (right in each image) posing in the snow for a photograph. This was probably captured by my Grandmother in the early 1970’s.
[Left] My Uncle Jim holding me in the driveway of my great-uncle’s farm. [Center] My Uncle Jim and (presumably) one of his friends standing in the kitchen of the farmhouse. [Right] My Uncle Jim standing next to my Mom and I in the dining area of the farmhouse.
Being held by my Grandfather (left) and getting cleaned up in the kitchen sink by my Grandmother (right). This area of the kitchen is shown in one of the photos from my most recent visit to the farmhouse (above).
A picture of me from the early 1970’s, demonstrating my preference for being behind the camera lens, and sitting in front of the staircase shown in the photographs from my most recent visit to the farmhouse (above).
My Mom, Dad, and I sitting in one of the rooms of the farmhouse (probably from the late 1960’s).