My father was born and raised on a farm. His parents acreage was more than five miles from where we lived in town. Needless to say a trip to my paternal grandparents was a long and bumpy wagon ride.
From a distance you could see the big barn standing off on the horizon. Its grey weathered boards reflecting the sunlight like a beacon welcoming the weary traveller from afar.
Arriving at the farm was an exciting reunion. Wearing a brightly sprigged fresh apron, Gramma would smother us with hugs and kisses. Grandpa remarked on how much we had grown and a gentle pat on the top of the head was his expression of affection.
After a filling lunch at the long plank table, my sister and I would help the women folk to tend to the cleaning up.We each had our own apron at the ready that hung from a hook where we had placed it last. ( I knew in later life that Gramma had washed and hung them all on the line to soak up the fresh country air.)
My brothers headed for the barn, Father and Grandpa to the porch.There were chickens to feed, horses to ride and kittens to cuddle.
Grandpa had even built a special pony cart just for me.The afternoon hours seem to pass so quickly, before you knew it the call would come for supper.
My Father who would take the afternoon to make his rounds and visit his patients, sometimes did not arrive home till way after dark. As I lay plumped up by pillows beneath one of Gramma's quilts I could hear his wagon coming down the lane, the clinking noise of the wheels echoing through the open window.
We would stay for days... looking back on the visits now it was akin to a lifetime.
