Molly writes with an Irish flow. Delores writes poetry that brings tears. Arleen has wry humor and perspective. Joanne connects past and present seamlessly. Dee brings introspection and wisdom with her writing. My own writing is that of a Midwest story teller.
That said, here is a lengthy post:
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| The road home |
Take that straight road,
the one over there. Road flows past maple trees, now yellow, bright like birthday candles. Go on past the corner where the old school house used to be. A mound of crumbled red bricks mark where children once played.
Stay on this road, but not too fast. Just gaze at those cornfields to the west.
Good crop this year, tassels are dancing in the breeze, the tangled silk is spilling out the shy ears tightly wrapped like a present. Like strands of gold running down the stalks.
Good crop this year, tassels are dancing in the breeze, the tangled silk is spilling out the shy ears tightly wrapped like a present. Like strands of gold running down the stalks.
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| Good full corn. Silk is almost ready to brown. |
A row of battered mailboxes are on the left, all people I once knew. Names of people long gone are streaked off. Strong farmers and patient farm wives. Good people. Their paths crossed mine time and again.
That big barn, covered with vines? Old couple lived on that patch of ground, but their house is almost gone, chewed down by creeping ivy and violent weeds. Like fingers from the ground wrapping around the wood frame and pulling it into the soil.
Stretches of field after field drift on across flat land. Stand of corn over on the right is strong, tall this year. A parade could hide in the rows. But the beans on the left?
Creek flooded its banks, covered the field in knee-deep creek water. Beans turn yellow when saturated roots drown. Too much water this year, not enough next year.
This angry creek pours it muddy waters out over the fields every spring, but farmers continue planting. "Maybe this year will be better..." Never is, but farmers stake their lives in hope.
The road will fork off,
but a dirt road goes on straight over a quiet creek and by the bluffs.
A rusty old bridge stands astride this wide welcoming creek. Traveled that road so many times.
Did my share of splashing in that creek on steaming July days. So did my folks. So did their folks. Life is lived to the fullest in a cold creek on a hot day.
Did my share of splashing in that creek on steaming July days. So did my folks. So did their folks. Life is lived to the fullest in a cold creek on a hot day.
But don’t take the dirt
road, although you could, but it’s a
long stretch of bumpy back road. It will rattle your bones loose. And it won't take us where we must go.
Swing over to the road to the left, follow its wide curve like a bow. Let the road take you slowly, or you’ll fly off into those bean fields. Don’t want to get stuck out there—that clay mud will suck the car down to the fenders. Seen it happen.
Swing over to the road to the left, follow its wide curve like a bow. Let the road take you slowly, or you’ll fly off into those bean fields. Don’t want to get stuck out there—that clay mud will suck the car down to the fenders. Seen it happen.
That road will glide
over a new wide bridge, put in twenty years ago over angry creek. Follow the rise to a big house and a mud-splattered truck.
From there, oh my! from there your eyes will want to rest a bit.
Gaze at rolling land, rich and green. Fields and cows, barns and houses, trucks and tractors, families with lots of children.
The Land is everything. Land remains.
So much life! Awe will steal air from your lungs.
Take your time, look.
From there, oh my! from there your eyes will want to rest a bit.
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| Source |
Gaze at rolling land, rich and green. Fields and cows, barns and houses, trucks and tractors, families with lots of children.
The Land is everything. Land remains.
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| Source |
So much life! Awe will steal air from your lungs.
Take your time, look.
Your eyes may want to race over
the velvet land. Land does not give up its secrets with ease, or let you study footprints stamped deep in the earth.
Ancient stone arrowheads lie just beneath growing wheat, bones beneath corn.
Old nations crossed over this plain, dwelt on this land, and faded sadly into mists.
Old nations crossed over this plain, dwelt on this land, and faded sadly into mists.
Wagons once rattled along hunting trails. Houses appeared, disappeared.
Flash, flash.
One generation to another builds and leaves. Always shifting into mists in the west.
The land stays, but people move on.
One generation to another builds and leaves. Always shifting into mists in the west.
The land stays, but people move on.
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| Source |
Wait! Now, there.
That is where I am from, that farmhouse right there! See it? Two stories of windows, white paint, green roof? Turn in at the mail box. The name is almost faded out, but it is still a ghost on the tin.
That is where I am from, that farmhouse right there! See it? Two stories of windows, white paint, green roof? Turn in at the mail box. The name is almost faded out, but it is still a ghost on the tin.
Quick! The north porch, see it? The begonias are bursting out of their pots this year. See those boots? That means Dad is inside, and Mom is watching out the kitchen window for us.
Look now. The barn over there? The trees made for climbing?
Run, hurry inside and don’t blink.
‘Cause if you do, this will all vanish.
An older post about "Home" can be found here.
