Sketches of the Farm
On a quiet, country road in Grey County,
midway between the town where the train stopped and the town where
the bus pulled in, was my uncle's farm.
My favourite spot was the high hill overlooking
the weatherbeaten barn; the sweet smell of hay escaping the loft,
tickled my nose. The sun, dancing in the bubbling, springfed creek,
below, made me squint as I looked; the blue pond gently rippled
where a mother led her ducklings.
The golden wheat, yonder, was already stooked.
White, woolly sheep dotted the green, sloping banks, and narrow,
beaten paths wound around - paths made by the dozen Herefords,
always taking the same route to the barn. The stable, a sturdy,
stone foundation under the barn, was home for the animals.
To the left was a portrait - Grandma's
house-of-many-rooms, with lightning rods upon the roof, and thick,
dark-green ivy climbing one side of the red brick. In my mind's
eye, I could see the front of the expansive house where two cement-floored,
open verandahs stood - romantic, historical, nineteenth-century
architecture atop them - elegant wooden cutwork, painted white.
The front yard was enormous; roses, grown
wild, perfumed the air. In the spring, pink, white, and red peonies,
surviving Grandma's garden-of-yesterday, formed a magnificent
floral fence along the roadside.
Stately hollyhocks stood at one side of
the house; beyond the gravel drive, bright-red cherries dotted
the trees in the orchard. On the other side, an aged crab-apple
tree overlooked the vegetable garden - beyond that, the spring
well.
The cool, dark shade of the cedars beckoned
from the farthest corner. Along grey rail fences, wild raspberry
bushes, with sharp thorns and peridot-green leaves, were heavy
with ruby-red fare; soft, bite-sized morsels of sweet, juicy fruit
teased my tongue, and my taste buds quickened at the thought.
Breaking the silence was the squeal of
pink piglets, and the grunt of the muddied red sow. Trodding in
unison, the bay mare and dapple grey pulled the overflowing, rickety
hay wagon.
A sketch of the farm must include the hill
and the lofty, century-old, majestic maple, reigning over its
domain. I sat with my back against its rough bark, and felt the
strength pulse in the maple - its heartbeat - its soul. Gentle,
summer breezes rustled through large, sheltering leaves, freeing
whispered secrets.
Beneath its spreading arms, with a soft
blanket covering the stubbled ground, I devoured gigantic slabs
of still-warm, homemade bread, spread with freshly-churned, finger-licking
butter. My lips puckered as I washed it down with cold, tangy
lemonade.
Afterwards, my eyes heavy, I stretched
out on the flannel coverlet, and the warbling of wild canaries
and melodious tinkling of distant cowbells were lullabies to dreamland.
The maple on the hill was a safe retreat from the searing sun,
a place to daydream, or to look upon the shades of greens and
soft-brown hues of the fields against the summer sky.
In my memory, the farm was God's most intricately-colourful
and warm patchwork quilt - His masterpiece! ~Joan Adams Burchell~
(copyright)
