I would love to say that I visited the farm on a cool, crisp, windy day, with colorful leaves blowing past my face and the smell of pumpkin spice hanging in the air, but my visit to Spider Hall Farms was far from the quintessential autumn day. It was hot and humid October day in Southern Maryland, a place where the weather is always unpredictable. One day, you will be bundled up in sweaters, scarves and hats and still shivering; the next, you will be sweating in a tank top and shorts, staring at all the fallen leaves around you and wondering what went wrong.

This was one of those days. With my family in tow, I walked through the freshly shaven grass to Spider Hall Farms, a place from my childhood, and a place where I was hoping to relive some lost memories. As a senior in college, I am about to embark upon a new stage in my life with an ending I cannot predict. This uncertainty made me feel that the sense of home I had always found comfort in to be fading away.

Spider Hall Farms, so named because of the “spider hall” that used to form over the dirt lane leading to it, is a family-owned business run by seventh-generation farmers. David and Susan Cox bought the tobacco farm when their children expressed an interest in reviving the family tradition that had ended with their parents. Now, they, their children, and their grandchildren help work on the land.

We stopped first at the petting zoo, where we were not greeted by the fall smell of pumpkin spice, but were treated to another odor I would have rather left undiscovered. Nevertheless, the animals were adorable. The braying goats stuck their heads through the slats of wood of their pen to nibble, because, as always, the grass is greener on the other side. My brother called me over to pet the fur of the llama, which was softer than anything I had ever pet.

The only concerning sight was the turtle, who was trying desperately to escape his tiny, bucket prison, tears leaking from his eyes over his hot, scaly skin.

“Is he okay to be in there like that,” my mother asked the nearby attendant, a brunette girl who looked young enough to still be in high school. “He looks like he needs water.” The attendant replied that he was fine. My mother’s expression was doubtful, so the attendant explained the turtle was from the desert, and he was desperate to get out to roam around and play, not because he was too hot.

From the petting zoo, we watched the children play in the educational exhibits, where they learned about life on the farm. I was amazed to find myself having to stoop into the playhouses that once towered over me and kept me entertained for hours.  Finding only a bittersweet feeling, I left the enclosure and followed my family to the blissfully cool farm store. By now, sweat was pouring down our reddened faces, and we were ready for some refreshments before we visited the main attractions: the corn maze.

Looking around the store, I was reminded of the old Mom and Pop’s stores that used to fill Southern Maryland before it was built into the bustling counties that have taken over today. Glass canning jars lined the shelves, filled with jellies, jams, salsas and pickles. Bushels of apples from Baugher’s Orchard, a farm upstate, sat on the ground. Local artists had hung their artwork on the walls to be sold, and beside this stood fridges and freezers filled with farm fresh milk, cheese, ice cream, yogurt and beef. On the counter, fresh baked pastries filled with pumpkin and apple tempted our appetites, while individually wrapped caramels beckoned from the register.

We decided upon some honeycrisp apples and cranberry orange jack cheese with chocolate milk (“From the brown cows,” I joked). We sat outside the store in rocking chairs as if we were sitting on grandmother’s porch. The sweet apples paired excellently with the sharpness of the jack cheese, which could have been a meal on its own. With hints of tangy orange zest and sweet bursts of cranberry, it had the tastes of an elegant wintry cheese platter in every single bite.

The hayride was next. The prickly, golden stalks poked at our bare legs; hayrides should only be ridden in weather cool enough to wear slacks and flannel. At the corn maze, we were warned the path was particularly difficult this year. Upon learning this, my mother immediately sought out a map.

“A map!” Jake, my brother, exclaimed. “You can’t do a corn maze with a map. That takes all the fun out of it.”

“We don’t have to use it,” Mom said. “It’s for if we get lost.”

“That’s part of the fun,” said Jess, Jake’s girlfriend.

“We don’t need a map,” Jake said firmly, grabbing Jess’s hand. “We’ll do it without one, and we will still beat you.”

And so the race began. I, fumbling along with a badly sprained ankle, was stuck with the slower pair of my parents, who insisted on following the map, while Jake and Jess ran ahead, hand-in-hand, Jake playing the part of the brave guide in the wilderness, and Jess as the damsel by his side.

Oh, to be young and in love.

The corn stalks towered above our heads. From inside the maze, with the rest of the world hidden from view, I found myself remembering a similar experience. The maze had seemed just as confusing and foreboding then, filled with winding bends and a writhing path that left the mind boggled. Then, too, I had followed my mother’s safe form as my brother ran ahead, always the most daring of the group. It occurred to me then that childhood memories were not the moments I should be chasing. As my brother journeyed ahead with a youthful spirit and curiosity, I realized that life, too, is not something to be scared of, but to be daringly explored. Life is an adventure. Like the maze I was trapped in then, it is filled with twists and turns that can send you down unruly and sometimes erroneous paths, but what matters most is knowing the people I love will always be there to help me find my way back home.