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There seems to be no better title for my feelings as I fall quietly into my rendezvous of memories in this old farm house. My heart clings softly and warmly to the thirty nine years here.
Old things mean more than little whimsical remembrances, passing thoughts, or even more than memories -- for old things have been woven quietly through threads of time -- slowly engravened day by day until they have become a part of the fiber that is me! And here within my solitude the pendulum of time swings back and once again uncovers for me those precious days!
I look at the old felt hat hanging by nail on the back porch. It has brought the smells of new mown hay, brush burning and diesel fumes to the house. It holds the stains of dust and sweat from the labors of the fields. It's edges are curled with time and -- waiting. Others wonder why it still hangs since its owner left this life some seasons ago -- but its hanging there keeps some of the sameness about and, well, it just belongs. Too much of my heart would be emptied if it were no longer there.
I look down the basement stairway -- there in the rough wood just above the bottom step are the childlike scratched letters -- "Julie Ann." I know the new paint job planned will - with the stroke of the brush - remove the memories of that little dark haired girl's mischievousness. And so many years it has reminded us what a welcomed joy she was to our household. Still my eyes shall find that cherished spot and long remember.
And looking southward across my spacious plot of grass a well worm path comes into view. I love this barren strip that winds from his house to mine -- my little tow-headed grandson. His very tiny feet began to build this path and day by day his voice would call to come quick and see the early butterfly or the first green apple on the corner tree. It's there he'd call to me to pick the yellow dandelion and as the summer moved along we'd kneel together there and blow their softness on those golden hours. Today his manly steps trod through this path with mail in hand, things to say of chemistry and art class and Shakespeare. I would this beaten trail cold always be, but time shall turn his steps to other roads and the grasses one by one shall cover the memories of that well worn, well loved path.
Old sweater -- hanging faithfully on the stairway doorknob. Who would think of you as something loved and honored. Look at you! Your whiteness yellowing with age, two remaining buttons, loosely hanging. And there you are, as ever, waiting to release your warmth and comfort. How many shoulders have you touched? Mine, to gather clothes from chilly lines, rake fall leaves, pick tomatoes -- or, in early morning before the heat could spread it's warmth throughout these spacious rooms. You've touched the shoulders of every daughter, as they have in their turns sat in my huge farm kitchen exchanging thoughts with mine. And I've watched the breezes toss you playfully upon the line as they've restored your softness and your beauty. It's then you've covered baby toes for story time and how you've loved the "to and froness" and the constant lullabies of rocking chair and evening song. I've watched you sail in fantasyland as little granddaughter turned you into angel wings as you flew from room to room. Oh, you played well your part to let a little heart take flight in it's magicness of childhood! And little granny, how gently you've been draped about her frail bent shoulders -- glad to caress and warm her feelings- as well as soothe her achiness and pain.
Old sweater, you have taught me much. Would that I could service give to all who came my way. Would that I could know and wholly see the needs of others. And then as you, give freely and impartially to all!
And now "Old Things" I know that graying time shall crumble you to nothing. Still tenderly within you'll ever be. For heart and memory shall take wing together and soar through time and all eternity!
By the Farmer's Wife
Old things mean more than little whimsical remembrances, passing thoughts, or even more than memories -- for old things have been woven quietly through threads of time -- slowly engravened day by day until they have become a part of the fiber that is me! And here within my solitude the pendulum of time swings back and once again uncovers for me those precious days!
I look at the old felt hat hanging by nail on the back porch. It has brought the smells of new mown hay, brush burning and diesel fumes to the house. It holds the stains of dust and sweat from the labors of the fields. It's edges are curled with time and -- waiting. Others wonder why it still hangs since its owner left this life some seasons ago -- but its hanging there keeps some of the sameness about and, well, it just belongs. Too much of my heart would be emptied if it were no longer there.
I look down the basement stairway -- there in the rough wood just above the bottom step are the childlike scratched letters -- "Julie Ann." I know the new paint job planned will - with the stroke of the brush - remove the memories of that little dark haired girl's mischievousness. And so many years it has reminded us what a welcomed joy she was to our household. Still my eyes shall find that cherished spot and long remember.
And looking southward across my spacious plot of grass a well worm path comes into view. I love this barren strip that winds from his house to mine -- my little tow-headed grandson. His very tiny feet began to build this path and day by day his voice would call to come quick and see the early butterfly or the first green apple on the corner tree. It's there he'd call to me to pick the yellow dandelion and as the summer moved along we'd kneel together there and blow their softness on those golden hours. Today his manly steps trod through this path with mail in hand, things to say of chemistry and art class and Shakespeare. I would this beaten trail cold always be, but time shall turn his steps to other roads and the grasses one by one shall cover the memories of that well worn, well loved path.
Old sweater -- hanging faithfully on the stairway doorknob. Who would think of you as something loved and honored. Look at you! Your whiteness yellowing with age, two remaining buttons, loosely hanging. And there you are, as ever, waiting to release your warmth and comfort. How many shoulders have you touched? Mine, to gather clothes from chilly lines, rake fall leaves, pick tomatoes -- or, in early morning before the heat could spread it's warmth throughout these spacious rooms. You've touched the shoulders of every daughter, as they have in their turns sat in my huge farm kitchen exchanging thoughts with mine. And I've watched the breezes toss you playfully upon the line as they've restored your softness and your beauty. It's then you've covered baby toes for story time and how you've loved the "to and froness" and the constant lullabies of rocking chair and evening song. I've watched you sail in fantasyland as little granddaughter turned you into angel wings as you flew from room to room. Oh, you played well your part to let a little heart take flight in it's magicness of childhood! And little granny, how gently you've been draped about her frail bent shoulders -- glad to caress and warm her feelings- as well as soothe her achiness and pain.
Old sweater, you have taught me much. Would that I could service give to all who came my way. Would that I could know and wholly see the needs of others. And then as you, give freely and impartially to all!
And now "Old Things" I know that graying time shall crumble you to nothing. Still tenderly within you'll ever be. For heart and memory shall take wing together and soar through time and all eternity!
By the Farmer's Wife
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