It will soon be a week now that I hopped in the old pick-up with bucket in tow. The morning was bright with sunshine -- a promise of a beautiful day. Today my big sisters son was to become a husband, I was asked to find some flowers for decoration. It took me to a old homestead not far down the road. There among the unmowed grass the weeds I found a whole bucket full of beautiful orange, yellow and white flowers.
I found something else that day -- there among the grass, the weeds and the vines-- I found a place of peace for the soul as I sat there in the quiet remembering -- yesteryear.
You take a long lane back into the pasture away from the main road. A tiny, rusty old mailbox sets on a stand that leans a bit to the lift. Tall weeds and grass grow on both sides of the lane, and some coming up in the middle --- leaving only a trail really.
At the end of that trail -- along a little creek -- use to stand a old farmhouse. There a little family use to work, and play and laugh. Little children ran bare foot through a well mowed yard. A mother planted beautiful flower beds and a big garden to feed her husband and little girls. A old cloths line stands over among forgotten flower beds and tall trees. Its wires sagging to the ground. A old "outhouse" sets among the trees.
What happened to those "good old days"? When life was simple and you sat on the front porch in the evening and watched the day turn into night. You worked hard but you had this happy feeling at night even if you were covered with dirt and sweat.
There was no such thing as " keeping up with the Jones" or tractors with fancy cabs -- or combines with air conditioners. Your farm was just big enough for both of you to work and you did it everyday -- side by side.
You weren't afraid to bow your head and give thanks for the simple meal that was made from love. Someone had taken time to make home made bread and put up jars of jam from the berries you picked. There was a big slab od home made butter -- as yellow as could be. Dad would take out his fiddle at night and mom would set down at the old piano. Music would fill the air.
There wasn't fancy hog houses -- all enclosed and fans running all day long. Instead you had made some little two stall huts -- just big enough for a momma on each side. Many a night you would spend hours huddled inside with momma as she gave birth to those little slimy pigs. You would make sure they would get under the heat lamp -- glowing in the dark. Oh -- the beautiful smell of bright yellow straw deep on the floor. What a cozy feeling you got in there where it was all warm and snuggly.
You weren't scared to get dirty. Little bare feet would splash around in the creek with soft mud oozing up between the toes. Little pairs of jeans would be hiked up to the knees. Little hands could spend hours making "mud cakes" and putting sticks in them for candles. Fathers would come in at night with their faces all covered with dirt -- only their eyes showing -- but a smile of contentment all over their faces.
In the morning a rooster would wake you up with his proud song. There would be a cow to milk and chickens to feed and pigs to slop. At night it was always a treat to see how many eggs you could get in your little tin bucket. Sometimes you would find a hidden nest in the straw in the old barn out north. How exciting when the old mother hen came out followed by her little yellow chicks.
There was no such thing as cooling that old farmhouse with air conditioning or heating it with central heat. Instead you would prop the old windows open with a stick and open wide the door. The old green screen door keeping out most of the flies. While mom baked or washed cloths, you could have a good old water fight with buckets or play house under the old cottonwood. At night you would sleep down stairs on a blanket on the floor with the hum of the fan and the crock of the bull frog putting you to sleep.
In the winter you snuggled up in front of the old wood stove with a pan of popcorn. Or played a game or read a book or just had time for a good old talk.
It was so quiet down here away from everything you could hear the bob white out in the north 40 or the song of the meadowlark. The wind would play in the tops of the old cottonwood where you swing on the old tire hung from the branch. Just swing -- back and forth -- barefoot-- with the sun in your face. Just swinging --- and dreaming.
Well-- its time for me to put away my pen and wonder back up that old trail to home, I look around once more at that quiet old homestead and am thankful that I can come here when life gets to stressful. Come here and take my mind and heart back in time to those good old days -- where memories live forever.
I found something else that day -- there among the grass, the weeds and the vines-- I found a place of peace for the soul as I sat there in the quiet remembering -- yesteryear.
You take a long lane back into the pasture away from the main road. A tiny, rusty old mailbox sets on a stand that leans a bit to the lift. Tall weeds and grass grow on both sides of the lane, and some coming up in the middle --- leaving only a trail really.
At the end of that trail -- along a little creek -- use to stand a old farmhouse. There a little family use to work, and play and laugh. Little children ran bare foot through a well mowed yard. A mother planted beautiful flower beds and a big garden to feed her husband and little girls. A old cloths line stands over among forgotten flower beds and tall trees. Its wires sagging to the ground. A old "outhouse" sets among the trees.
What happened to those "good old days"? When life was simple and you sat on the front porch in the evening and watched the day turn into night. You worked hard but you had this happy feeling at night even if you were covered with dirt and sweat.
There was no such thing as " keeping up with the Jones" or tractors with fancy cabs -- or combines with air conditioners. Your farm was just big enough for both of you to work and you did it everyday -- side by side.
You weren't afraid to bow your head and give thanks for the simple meal that was made from love. Someone had taken time to make home made bread and put up jars of jam from the berries you picked. There was a big slab od home made butter -- as yellow as could be. Dad would take out his fiddle at night and mom would set down at the old piano. Music would fill the air.
There wasn't fancy hog houses -- all enclosed and fans running all day long. Instead you had made some little two stall huts -- just big enough for a momma on each side. Many a night you would spend hours huddled inside with momma as she gave birth to those little slimy pigs. You would make sure they would get under the heat lamp -- glowing in the dark. Oh -- the beautiful smell of bright yellow straw deep on the floor. What a cozy feeling you got in there where it was all warm and snuggly.
You weren't scared to get dirty. Little bare feet would splash around in the creek with soft mud oozing up between the toes. Little pairs of jeans would be hiked up to the knees. Little hands could spend hours making "mud cakes" and putting sticks in them for candles. Fathers would come in at night with their faces all covered with dirt -- only their eyes showing -- but a smile of contentment all over their faces.
In the morning a rooster would wake you up with his proud song. There would be a cow to milk and chickens to feed and pigs to slop. At night it was always a treat to see how many eggs you could get in your little tin bucket. Sometimes you would find a hidden nest in the straw in the old barn out north. How exciting when the old mother hen came out followed by her little yellow chicks.
There was no such thing as cooling that old farmhouse with air conditioning or heating it with central heat. Instead you would prop the old windows open with a stick and open wide the door. The old green screen door keeping out most of the flies. While mom baked or washed cloths, you could have a good old water fight with buckets or play house under the old cottonwood. At night you would sleep down stairs on a blanket on the floor with the hum of the fan and the crock of the bull frog putting you to sleep.
In the winter you snuggled up in front of the old wood stove with a pan of popcorn. Or played a game or read a book or just had time for a good old talk.
It was so quiet down here away from everything you could hear the bob white out in the north 40 or the song of the meadowlark. The wind would play in the tops of the old cottonwood where you swing on the old tire hung from the branch. Just swing -- back and forth -- barefoot-- with the sun in your face. Just swinging --- and dreaming.
Well-- its time for me to put away my pen and wonder back up that old trail to home, I look around once more at that quiet old homestead and am thankful that I can come here when life gets to stressful. Come here and take my mind and heart back in time to those good old days -- where memories live forever.
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