A to Z "B"

A country childhood must surely put nearly anyone in close proximity to a barn.  They are pretty interesting, if you think about it.  Consider the materials they are built of--the old ones relied on local materials.  To some degree, you can judge the age of a barn by it's structure.  The roof-lines of barns in snowy areas might be designed to carry a snow load. Most of the local barns are hillside barns, as is the one of the farm I grew up on. That particular barn was constructed of logs, and had a barn-stone (quarried sandstone) foundation.

And in those country barns, sometimes you find a beenest. White faced hornets and yellowjackets are two types that often built inside old farm buildings.  And where you find bee nests, you find children who get stung because they do foolish things, like mess with the bee nests.

Behind the barn where I grew up, there were old ponds in the woods on the neighbor's property.  The ponds were edged in cattails, and were more swamp than open water.  The tree canopy was dense, and the woods were dark. So were the swampy ponds. My grandmother told us that was where the boogeyman lived. That was enough to keep us away from any danger of drowning. ~laughing~  Well played, Grandma! The creepy factor followed me the whole way to adulthood.  The really funny things is, almost 15 years ago, we bought property to build a house. The boogieman woods is part of it.  I've come to love the woods, but you still couldn't pay me enough to pitch a tent down there and spend the night in it.

Homemade butter, buttermilk, and homemade bread were part of every lunch. 


And berry picking was part of every summer.  And if you've ever done it, you probably know...it gets into your veins.  I loved to do it as a kid, and even slipping on the downhill side of fifty years, I still love to do it. One of my very best memories is of a summer day, getting home from work early, grabbing the berry pails, and we took off, me, my three children, and two dogs. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, and we picked wild black raspberries for hours. The kids' faces were stained purple from berries and we were weary when we made our way back to the house.  All that winter--and even still, when I open a jar of black raspberry preserves, I take a sniff and smile. I swear, I can smell that day, feel the warmth of the sunshine and the wind blowing, and I hear my children laughing.

Another day in the country...a good life.

A to Z "R" is for Road: a metaphor

I was thinking about roads today while driving home from work on a...well...a road.  Sometimes my inspiration just shouts, "Duh!" at me.

A road.  Not quite two lanes wide: in fact, closer to one lane wide where it squeezes between a cow pasture and a tall oak woods.  It is blacktopped.  My remote, little corner of the world no longer has the quaint, dirt roads lined with dog  roses and daisies.  A sign of the times, I reckon.  Blacktop and all, though, they still meander in their narrow little way, up and down over the sides of creek hollows.

                                              
"A cowpath." my dad used to say.  He was never much for the fourlanes, or the fast lane.  Unless he was off to see some wonder of the world--as described by a farming neighbor, or my mom.  Mom was keen on seeing those sights that defied a ho-hum reaction.  Both of them liked to be amazed.

Amazed...the places where roads took them. But they always came home to the farm, following roads until they came to their little winding cowpaths.  And life was good.  Simple people, life's roads took them on a humble journey.  They lived, they laughed, and loved... all fitting the humble roads of life they traveled.

                                          Photo credit: Janet Gill


Roads as a metaphor for life's journey, has been well-used over time.

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood." is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of roads in that respect.

Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" is a shining example.

We can be on the road to riches, the road to ruin, or the road to hell paved with good intention.  And I am sure that all of us have stood at a fork in the road.  And lest we forget, "The Road is long, with many a winding turn...that lead us to who knows...where..." written by Bobby Scott and Bob Russell.

I-- for one, am on the road to getting my first book published. :-)

I have never strayed far off of the cowpaths. Even so, the years go by and roads change.  Perhaps, the sign of the times is a metaphor for my life.  The laid back simplicity of a dirt road is long gone. Most cowpaths have been replaced by paved and lined highways that are faster and busier.  And no one stops to smell the roses or pick the daisies.

Maybe I am just getting old.  Let me check my rear view mirror- yep, a lot of road behind me now.  But, I smile as the memories of my journeys ripple through my mind, crossing time. I can't help but  think...the roads I have chosen (or, perhaps have chosen me) have brought me to a good place. 

And that, my friend, is all that matters.