We received a phone call last from a cousin of ours residing in the USA. His sister is journeying through the motherland and whilst in the village of our ancestors was approached by a local, keen on the potential sale of some of our families lands. My heart always skips a beat when I hear them frivolously speaking of these once fertile farm lands and how do I detest their lackadaisical attitude. Sadly my parents are overly enthusiastic in bidding adieu, also assuming my uncle more than happy to part ways too. Though she’d endeavour to contact and notify him obviously. But we know such a sale would hardly warrant an issue for him.
The thing is, I have a problem with this.
A sizeable one, actually.
My insides disintegrate to melancholy over the probability of surrendering such sites. This is a place which firmly cradles histories of past generations and an area teaming with my own childhood memories; fond and bitter alike. It is also a place that I’ve never been familiar with nor will I ever be acquainted with now. And maybe this is sheer gluttony and resentment harking, considering I shan’t benefit from such a transaction that drives me to be firmly reluctant. Had there been some financial gain for myself then maybe I wouldn’t object? Perhaps that alone has tainted and clouded my judgement, though I tightly believe there is more to this inkling.
For some inexplicable reason, I demand that this land and all other lands pertaining to our family remain in our family, forever.
Because there is something utterly fascinating within my humble vision of adventuring to these lands with my future children and family, showcasing these places of their ancestors; exhibiting what we once were. Cherishing the thought of transferring these sites down to my children, who in turn will pass them onto their children and their children etcetera, etcetera. These lands grasp precious, inconceivably vast rural views though are far from being lucrative hot spots for developers. And they probably never will be either. But they are lodged within my heart and I do not wish to see them go.
Wistfully I’ve never actually viewed them, only overheard copious stories and wild tales of yesteryear, so it infuriates me that I may never find the pleasure of their association. Never traipse merrily through nor dance amongst the overgrown grass and tangled web of weeds, neither tread upon the soil which my grandfather and great-grandfather harvested and trampled upon years before.
But hope is not yet vanquished. These lands are indeed rural and with that comes ancient and traditional slash unconventional European methods of sales, whose original titles and deeds remain in the names of ancestors long passed. Never legally modified since it was hardly necessity until now. These sites must also be equally divided between a family of nine and the siblings who’ve left this Earth the duties now befall upon the deceased’s children, making this a not-so-simple transaction. There are also other families who will no doubt inert unjust claims to compensation.
So whilst a third of the parties are keen to pass along their shares, others may not be as willing, meaning this purchase may never come to pass after all.
I know I am certainly hoping for the latter.