How Quaint a Scene

In a rustic, back-country area of hilly Virginia rests a long-forgotten family farm. How days have progressed and moved on in this twenty-first century. 

A golden corn field is left standing, ready to be harvested many moons ago. A sharp breeze rustles the whithered husks, sending a chill down your spine. 

The old barn's red pain is peeling, chipping away with age. Inside are harnesses and tools, neatly hung on a row of nails. Everything left right where it needs to be. Empty barrels of what should be filled with corn and bran are stacked in a corner and nearby rests a floppy sack labeled 'Oats.' 

An old cabin with a large front porch lies not too far off the dusty road. Maybe the family, who once lived here, sat out in their rocking chairs together and plucked corn or shelled peas during harvest time. Maybe they liked to host barn-dancing parties. Maybe the kids used to sleep out on the deck at night and watch for shooting stars. 

A Conestoga wagon sits parked beside the barn. 

A chicken-less coop lies empty, waiting for eggs to be laid once more. 

A pen of dried mud could almost guarantee hogs had been on the list of livestock. 

Down a short, winding trail a small stream gurgles; the only sign of life. A grove of oak trees line the creek, a ragged rope with a rusty swing creaks beneath it. In years past you can imagine this was a favorite place to cool down on those humid Virginian summer days. 

The brook just seems yearning to bubble over with the stories of lives that once lived here in such a quaint setting. 

How quaint a scene!