Reliving the memories of centuries past, I imagine a quaint farmyard and a small log cabin, nestled in the back woods of Vermont. Peering through the little glass window panes, I see a family snuggled up in the living quarters, reading the family Bible, and warming themselves by the smokey, blazing hearth. In a days work I can picture the Father tending to the fields of corn, barley, wheat, and oats and the Mother feeding an indoor fire for boiling the water necessary to launder their few clothes with, hauled from the rushing creek. Children fly about as airplanes, eager to help weed up healthy vegetables and clobber the clucking chickens. Strong and helpful, a couple of older youth are mucking out the stalls and administering to the livestock. In the evening, as the sun sets low in the sky, accompanied by a darkening hue of azure, the family gathers together to partake of chunky vegetable stew and warm, toasty cornbread that Mother has made; all from their own land and vigorous, untiring effort. I contemplate what it would be like to join in on such rustic festivities and my mind wanders off yet again. (rough draft)
(c. May 2, 2008)
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