“Dag-nab-it!” Father’s favorite expression of total frustration rang out over the frozen, snow-covered front lawn.
Standing in a well shoveled path, Mom, bundled up in appropriate winter wear, smiled as she said, “ Your Father’s ideas for the outside decoration of our home this Christmas seem to have hit a sour note.”
“What’s wrong,” she asked him.
“I can’t seem to get this last ‘critter’ to stay lined up Continue reading
When I heard my father call my name, I froze. I was lying on my back on top of the stored bales of hay next to the outer barn wall where the sun shone through the cracks and sparkled a snowstorm of hay dust. I had been there since I finished my barn chores after school. It was my secret place.
I suppose I was daydreaming, although if you had asked me then, I would have said I was just looking at stuff: the spot-lit dust, the yellow-green hay whose color predicted how it smelled, and the scenes I could see through the thin cracks in the barn wall—like little slices of the world. Continue reading
We four: Chester, Eleanor, Allen and I, were headed down the drive, across the bridge and down the main road toward the swimming holes at Dunbar Falls. Mom had told us not to go that far down on the brook, but that was where the best swimming was. Mom had heard we were in for some thunder showers and didn’t want us that far from home when they descended. The peaceful brook could rise in just a few minutes to a raging torrent and our situation could become dangerous. We weren’t phased a bit by Mom’s predictions, but we had never seen what that brook could do when storm swollen. Mom had lived with that brook in her childhood. We should have listened! Continue reading
As time progresses, the definition of fun changes. I was born in Westmoreland, New Hampshire,October 29, 1921 at the Reed Place. We lived there while Dad substituted farm labor for Mr. Pierce in place of another hitch in the Army. I know the Reed Place only from photos, stories my Mother told, and personal observations made in later years. We moved to the Goodrum house when Dad went to work for John Burt. That house I remember. The main floor plan, the smokehouse and barn. Small front and side lawns. All situated on the main road through town. Continue reading