Suddenly I was there
forty years ago.
The old family farm
on the gravel road
grass growing between the ruts
rusty mailbox leaning
in the old rusty milk can.
Freshly mowed hay
sending its scent to my nose.
Newly born calf
cries hungrily for his mom
who sadly joins in the duet.
Chickens scratching the front yard
a ritual of welcome
as we climb the steps
to the old porch with the swing
moving back and forth
from an aunt rising
to great us –
her apron string caught between the slats.
Inside the house
the smell of freshly separated milk
gave way to the fried chicken and apple pie.
The unique odor from the pig pen
entered when the wind was in the right direction
and it always was.
Relatives laughed
and cried
and something glared
as they whispered
while looking at another.
We ate so much the hogs were jealous
and went back for more.
We kids rode imaginary horses
across the pasture.
I was on Trigger
my cousin on Buttermilk.
Sun sank in the west
as cars departed
and we followed the gravel road
pass the mail box.
Suddenly I was back
rejoicing in my memories.
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Newfie Hugs, Rose
Thanks Larry.
Georg
This is a beautiful tribute to your childhood experiences.
Thanks, ~D.