Suddenly I returned to
forty years ago.
The old family farm
on the gravel road with
grass growing between the ruts
and a 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
in 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 relative.
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.
The sun sank in the west
as cars departed
and we followed the gravel road
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Thanks for the memories, although I rather did ride on Buttermilk.
Georg
Newfie Hugs, Rose
Cheers,
Dan
the old farm sounds familiar. I remember those days so many years
ago when a fleet of cars would drive up the gravel lane to
Aunt Ella's house. You weren't speaking, by chance of Gloucester,
Virginia? Thanks for sharing this. -gene.