I’d wash and bury my face in the towel, just taking
in the fresh scent of the laundry that had been hung outdoors on the line in the pine-scented air of
the open spaces of the farm where there was a blackberry patch of delicious
ripe berries near the barn with a few cows and a kitty near the creek with a
bridge leading into the woods with lots of blueberry bushes and deer flies
buzzing around my straw hat. My aunt and
my mom and I would pick the blueberries for the pies that would cool on top of
my Grandfather’s roll-top desk in the corner of the kitchen that had a wood
stove near the bedroom where I would sleep and wake up to the sound of the
rooster crowing in the yard, and to the sweetness of the pine-scented air through
the open window. The farmhouse is gone now, lost to housing development, but
the memories remain with me, as vivid as yesterday.
(Thanks to my friend JP who had requested stories of going to Grandma's house, for one of her many projects. This led me to reflect on many happy childhood memories.)
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