In cultural geography, Identity is how we make sense of ourselves while Sense of Place is how people infuse meaning in to a place by attaching memories and experiences to it. Both identity and sense of place are integral to each other as we travel through life. The places that we grow up in, visit, associate with and form a connection to are the places that help to shape our identity through emotions, memories and reasoning.

As the daughter of a naval officer I lived the typical lifestyle of a “navy brat” moving every so often, in a few cases clear across the country. Before moving to San Diego we lived on the East Coast for a while, both in Florida and Virginia. One of the best aspects of living on that side of the country was being so close to the rest of my family (grandparents, aunts and uncles, and other relatives). We were regularly taking trips to visit my grandparents in Boston, my Aunt Marie and Uncle Norman at the summer lake house in Maine, and my favorite place of all, the farmhouse on the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland.
The farmhouse on the bay is a place from my past that has helped to shape my identity since I was very young. Even though I stopped visiting the farm years ago the memories and emotions attached to it have carried through in to many aspects of my life and continue to help me assess and determine my values as I move forward. It has been a source of inspiration, nostalgia, and education, and to this day is still a part of my everyday way of life.

Aunt Dot and Uncle Jim’s farmhouse on the Chesapeake Bay was a long drive in from home (home was Fairfax, Virginia, not too far outside of Washington D.C.), a few hours at least, along roads lined with cows and grassy pastures, wooden fences and spinning windmills. There were stone walls remnant of the Civil War adorned with ages of musty moss and trails of teary white flowers dripping on to glittering pea gravel below. The last bit of paved road was miles out of town and far away from the tiresome travails of urban life. It wound through ancient weeping willows and connected with the double-rut road leading out to the farm. It was a seemingly endless road scattered with the remnants of past visitors over the years, stones piled in the center and strewn to the edges, a new path further cleared for those to follow. An always-anticipated part of the drive in was getting to see the many animals that would often pop out of the surrounding forests; the rabbits and deer were my own personal favorites, but I also liked keeping my eyes open for brightly colored birds which my grandmother (a birdwatcher) would help me to identify. We slipped through soybean fields, blooming sunflowers and gleaming grasses that waved with abandon, their wispy tops silhouetted against the milky blue beyond. Far off in the distance, away from the road and perched atop a pole sat a charming white colonial birdhouse, a beacon above the endless sea of undulating grains. And of course there was the cow…not a real one, but a spotted creation made out of a large water tank feigning a life size moo-moo (as the kids called them). As soon as Mr. Moomoo (a white body with large black spots and a floppy black tail) was in view we knew we were close and the anticipation grew ten fold.
The end of the road greeted us with peach trees aglow with fuzzy fruit, the bustling garden contained by chicken wire and weathered wood, and the boat was always stacked full with craggy traps at the dock in the distance. We knew we were there when the sounds of children’s laughter chimed in along side chirping cicadas, when the smell of fresh Chesapeake crab on the grill seeped in through the windows, and the air thick with sea salt and soil settled in your lungs. But the best part of arriving was the Irish Setters and familiar faces coming out to greet us before we even got around to opening the dusty car doors.
Days passed all too quickly at the farm. We swam in the pool nestled in along the banks of the bay, climbed the enormous green John Deere tractor (which I think sat in the same spot for all the years that I was there), played on the rope swing hanging from the giant willow, canoed, took boat trips to collect crab traps, tended to the garden, played tug-o-war with the dogs, played games (Monopoly, cards, Scrabble and hide-and-go-seek were the favorites), helped in the kitchen, read books, lit up fireworks and caught fireflies (a memory that until this day still makes me feel like a child inside when I reminisce). But those are only some of my fondest recollections. There were so many other activities and events that occurred from year to year and visit to visit. Each trip had new surprises in store for us and we couldn’t wait to find out what new experiences and escapades were on the horizon. It was quite the distraction all through the school year, and truly an adventurous child’s paradise.

The years passed one by one, and eventually we moved again, only this time it was across the country to San Diego. It was far away from what I considered “home” (although as I became an adult my idea of “home” slowly evolved). But at the time I was devastated, and to make matters worse the visits to the farm became fewer and fewer each year because of the distance, until they eventually fizzled out all together. The real heartbreak came when I found out that Aunt Dot and Uncle Jim were selling the farm. They were getting old and could no longer keep up with all the maintenance that it required. I also learned in later years that part of the reason for letting it go was due to the disappointment in the state’s inability to keep the waters clean and safe (the Chesapeake Bay is now one of the most polluted bodies of water in the US).
My family planned a trip to the farm as a farewell visit…and to my dismay I could not go. When I realized I wasn’t going to be able to make the trip I didn’t really think about it all that much, it was simply not a possibility at the time. It wasn’t until my family returned with pictures and stories that I became tremendously heartbroken. I was depressed, really depressed about it, and cried a lot over a loss that I could no longer regain. I know now that part of what I was feeling was resentment; mostly for the fact that my family got to go and I didn’t. I felt a lot of emotions about my past that I had not yet realized. It was a small epiphany for me. For many years I didn’t feel as though I had an attachment to any one place because of the fact that we moved so often. What I realized was that even though the farm was not where I lived, it was “home” in many ways. Every year we visited I always thought there would be another year, another visit, and having to say goodbye was never a consideration. In my mind, it would always be there.
The loss of the beloved farm plagued me for many years. The fact that I could no longer visit my favorite escape was a source of personal discontent and ravaging disenchantment. However, I grew up, and grew wiser (so I’d like to think) and found myself an adult, searching for a new perspective on loss and my past. I began on a path where living in the present and looking forward towards the future became more of a priority than constantly rehashing the past. I began looking at the farm as an embodiment of who I am and who I have become. I found symbolism in the physical (even geographical) aspects of the farm as well as the spiritual and abstract facets that it contributed to my happiness.

In the end, the point I had to make to myself was that the farm makes me happy. Despite the fact that I can no longer go there in person, I can visit whenever I want in my mind. I can transport myself in to the garden, or atop the John Deere, or swinging on the rope swing while the crabs smoke on the grill. I have come to realize that it may actually be better this way. My childhood memories of that place are untainted by adulthood, responsibility and the many emotions that come attached to those positions in life. They are pure accounts of what it was like to truly enjoy a place.
Some day I hope to have my own place that embodies the spirit of the farmhouse on the banks of the bay.

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