The path to the house was lined with a brigade of tall sentries. Each pine had been meticulously planted and nurtured for years. It was now their duty to protect the meager house from the elements.
Once you reached the house you were greeted by a rusty old hand pump which had served its purpose until it was at last replaced by indoor plumbing. The outhouse in the backyard – another reminder of times passed. A stray cat might also curl its way around your feet, begging for attention.
The house itself was modest, but held stories of a family and their journeys through tough times as well as the good. The little modified cottage grew with every new addition to the clan. As they grew so did the house.
A little seat was built into the wall under a window overlooking the massive flower garden, the fields of golden hay and the ever present line of diligent soldiers. A perfect refuge to escape and read a book or just enjoy the view.
This place belonged to my grandparents. Their eight children spent their younger years there. My grandmother watched five of them and her husband pass away during her lifetime and finally succumbed herself – never giving up the house nor the memories that were made there.
I spent many happy times on the farm. It became a kind of sanctuary for a young city girl.