Georgetown, Maine, 1870. A farmer stands in the middle of a field, taking one last look at the family farm. This land was cleared by his ancestors, tree by tree, using oxen and backbreaking labor. Those ancestors are still here, of course, up on the rise.  He can see the white stones where his mother and father lay, and the old black stones that mark his grandparents’ resting place.

Other stones make up the walls that surround the field and the foundation of his family home.  His eyes scan the pasture and the barn, now empty and desolate.  Weeds are already growing in the pigpen.  A broken plow stands next to the well, where it will rust until Judgment Day.  The orchard is budding, getting ready to grow apples that will never be picked.

After a silent goodbye, the farmer climbs into the wagon where his family waits.  They roll slowly down the road, out of sight, following the sun toward the richer farmland and longer growing season of the new western frontier.

Now the farmhouse and barn sit empty and silent.  For now they are still solid and useful.  As the years pass, however, the frost and the weather begin to affect the barn, which sags and twists on its shallow foundation.  Eventually it collapses into a heap of silvered timber.

The house is built on a deeper, more solid foundation.  People come by occasionally to scavenge a window or an old piece of furniture. The door is left open, and wild animals begin to roam the empty rooms.  A few years of sun and wind blow patches of shingles off the roof, and now water is free to enter with each rainfall or snowmelt.  The plaster walls become soaked and stained, and finally collapse.  Rotten floorboards give way, and gaping holes reveal the cellar.  A drifter seeks shelter for the night and starts a fire that gets out of control.  Now the old farmhouse, so long without a purpose, is reduced to a hole in the earth filled with blackened timbers.

Animals still populate the farm, but there are no cows or horses.  Only deer, raccoon, possum, squirrels and the occasional bear or moose.  Wildflowers, dandelions, crabgrass, and other weeds spread across the fields where they no longer need to fear the hoe.  After a decade, the farm is covered with scrub bushes like sumac and blackberry, and there are plenty of thorns and burdocks to snare the wandering visitor.  Poison ivy lurks in the shade.  White pine, birch, and other trees begin to grow.

After 20 years, the growing trees have shaded out and killed the initial scrub brush.  Other, more shade-tolerant species will take their place.  Eventually the hardwoods will grow, and other species of evergreen.  The land that the farmer’s ancestors cleared has returned to forest once again.

Today, a young boy wanders these woods, exploring.  All he sees is nature, until he spies a mossy stone wall that cuts through the trees.  How did that get here?  As he follows the wall, he comes to an old cellar hole, lined with more stones.  There must have been a house here once.  Why would somebody want to live in the woods?  Keeping an eye out for the old well – his grandfather taught him that – he finds a stand of old apple trees, heavy with fruit.  Were they planted by Johnny Appleseed?  He finds a decent apple and munches on it as he wanders farther.  Suddenly he sees a small group of gravestones, crooked and mossy and very old.  Spooked, he turns and walks fast.  As he goes, he tries to imagine what the place must have looked like in the olden days, and who the people were who lived there.  His imagination fails him.

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