I close my eyes; the breeze blowing my hair; the sun warming my face. I think of years ago--summers on the farm. The wind blowing tall grasses in the fields. The smell of honeysuckle pervading the senses. Apple trees sporting hundreds of miniature fruits. Grass freshly mown.
The white farmhouse and red barn, a perfect picture of the American dream. Flag waving from the entry of the covered porch welcomed all to come on in. Ice cold tea in the 1940's refrigerator available to any and all.
The hand pump still mounted on the counter over the kitchen sink, though no longer connected to a water source. The wood cookstove, cold and silent, in that warm time of year.
Windows stood open. Screen door slamming as children ran in and out. The smell of summer everywhere.
The barn, though empty of animals, still smelled of occupants long since gone. Children loved the cool dark of that place. Games of hiding and seeking could go on for hours. Cookouts in that barn. Family gathered together. Tables strung together. Food that spoke of plenty.
Family that went through hard times, but that came together to celebrate the season and each other.
We never left there without music. Grammie at the piano, or with the accordion in that barn. Music was a part of that life. Singing together was our due. Never realizing then that she gave us a gift for life.
For us, the farm is gone now. We miss those days. Some of the family, too, have graduated to a new life---one far better.
The pictures remain vivid in our minds. Little things bring to mind that season of life. Sometimes, the past can seem more vibrant than the todays. We sorrow. We laugh. But as much as we would like to, we can't go back.
One thing that has not changed is the music passed on to us in that time. Grammie spoke to us of songs in the night. Back then we could not understand the need. Today, older and more worn, we do. We have each had those songs. Songs that brought comfort or cheer. Songs that encouraged us on. She knew then, what we did not. That with life comes suffering. But that in spite of what might come, we could go on singing the songs.
The songs that were born from that time in the old, red barn.