Wanita's Farm

While on a brief photography adventure in rural Ontario recently, an abandoned farm caught my eye. I stopped, pulled up the overgrown drive, parked the car and went off to explore. The property consisted of a weathered grey farm house, two large barns, and a few small storage buildings. I went off to explore the barns first, foraging through long grass and weeds to get there, and then began to take some photographs.

The barns were clearly long out of use, mostly empty, with a few remnants of human and animal life. Sunlight pierced the gaps in the wallboards, and the floor was missing large sections, making my steps rather tenuous. The rafters of the lower level of the big barn housed countless bird’s nests, like the barn itself, all void of life.

I have always had a fascination for places abandoned, so with more than a little anticipation, I made my way to the house to see what awaited. As I approached, I saw through the dim opening that one of the smaller buildings outside held haphazardly piled cardboard boxes, and in the other, cat litter bags filled with newspapers. Two doghouses lay partly hidden in the foliage, long vacant of their inhabitants. The outside of the house was strewn with various pieces of well weathered furniture; a couch and a mattress, and an old ringer washing machine lay on its side, all slowly being swallowed by the long weeds.

With eyes wide open, I approached the side door, which was propped open by a rusty paint can full of old brushes. The porch was scattered with pet cages, pieces of clothing, and various bits of refuse. Tentatively, I entered the kitchen to find the first of many rooms that were filled with a surprising richness of texture and colour and decay. Brushing off feelings of invasiveness, I began to look carefully at what lay before me. The personal items left behind by the final occupant slowly began to reveal aspects of who this person was: medicine bottles littered the floor, bags of pet food lay dusty in a cupboard, food containers sat on rusty fridge shelves, years past their best before date.

Correspondence left about the kitchen revealed specific details about the long-gone occupant: her name was Wanita, she had a daughter, and at that time, was soon to have a grandchild. She belonged to Columbia House Music Club, and had been called for jury duty in a nearby city. Despite the chaotic condition of the house, she seemed to have some sense of organization, as each piece of mail was scribed with its arrival date, none more recent than 1998.

I found myself stepping quietly as I went, as if another was in the house, soundless except for the occasional crack of broken glass underfoot and the buzzing of summer insects.

The remaining rooms on the main floor were scattered with old magazines, newspapers, and furniture, including a large wheeled pet cage. And there were not one, but two old console stereos, turntable lids open seemingly ready for the next record. Most of the windows were broken and the front door hung precariously from one hinge. Years of exposure to cold winters and hot summers had caused the painted walls to peel like a bad sunburn, revealing even more colour beneath. Two birds flew in a window and squawked at me as though this was their home, and I had no business being there.

I continued my exploring upstairs, where I found four more rooms, three of which were full of things left behind, mostly clothing and boxes. The fourth room was strangely empty, save for an old mattress, as though it were actually lived in. Childhood items scattered the floor, recalling perhaps a happier time. A few Christmas decorations hung in darkened corners. And, like the lower floor, there was colour and texture everywhere, with peeling paint again revealing another layer, another colour, and another time, beneath.

I left the house after taking a number of photographs, and began to wonder about Wanita, this woman who loved colour, and pets, and music, and Christmas. Did she dance to her records? Did she have a lover? Why did she leave her home? And, is she still alive?

A subsequent Google search yielded no results, unsurprisingly, but did lead me to her daughter’s Facebook page. She lives, apparently, in a town near the abandoned house. And after a long inner debate, I sent her a message explaining my experience at her former home, and asking if she could please give me more information about her mother and the house. She has not replied as yet, and so, like the pitch black basement I dared not enter, Wanita and her life will likely remain a mystery.

But I like a good mystery.