The Farm

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.

* My grandparents barn many years after their passing.
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.

Home Sweet Home

When ever I see a photograph of my childhood home a rush of memories dance through my head.

It was the place I was born, learned to toddle across the lawn, pushed about in the perambulator by my sister Sophie, visited my Father daily in his office at the building just off the kitchen door...So many stories that began and ended within those walls. Too abundant to mention, but forever locked away in my heart.

Grandma

I was the last of my Mother's five surviving children. Raising the family, running a household and attending to her many social commitments required a helping hand.Who better capable to fill the position than my loving Grandmother.


Grandma holding me and my sister Sophie.

My mother's mother had reared four of her own in a big majestic, white house just a stone's throw away down the street. In fact my older brothers were the first to inform me that when they were young, all of them; my grandparents, Mother and Father and my siblings lived in that grand house that I found so intriguing.


My Grandparents house Winter 1889.

My Mother's childhood home, where upon entry a gentle embrace awaited and a nuance of delectable aromas emanated from the kitchen. This too was my other home where I would spend countless hours enchanted by Grandma's stories and gifted through her wisdom. A place that when I visited in later years, I could envision sitting on the veranda, Grandma's gentle voice singing a lullaby as I drifted off in slumber...

Fond Recollections

My Mother Katherine whom my Father fondly called Kate, at seventeen.

The first memory I can recollect from early childhood was the scent of my Mother's hair.

Long, dark and silken she wore it in a bun that rested at the nape of her neck. Unlocked from it's confines, she would wash it in sections and then rinse with lavender water. The redolence lingered for hours, for when she released it from the pins in the evening to brush the long tresses the fragrance once again filled the room.

I can remember vividly as she nuzzled my cheek and held me close to her breast.Through scrapped knees, lost kittens and gentle sobbing that loving embrace, accented with the heavenly essence remained with me all of my life...