Any day is a good day to head out Home. But when the sky is bright blue with huge pillows of fluffy white clouds, and the sun is shining on the August cornfields, it’s perfect.
On this particular day, we had no ulterior motive. We were time-long for a visit with Aunt Joan and Uncle Clifford, chatting and hugging and soaking in the rural, country air. We were delighted to find them planted on the porch in comfy lawn chairs, basking in the breeze that wafted across the gardens and the large fields that stretched between the original Griffith homestead and their cozy home. Uncle Clifford has over eighty years of life experience rooted in that soil, and Aunt Joan probably sixty plus. It’s who they are.
We could sit there on that porch and take in the countryside. At the end of the long rows of almost-ready cornstalks the fields stretched into the barnyard. Dozens of head of cattle walk through that barn. And every winter one of those cows finds its way butchered, cut and wrapped into our Greensburg freezers. But now is not the time to think about winter, as the cattle on a thousand hills graze and feed in the warm summer sun.
In early spring, there are pigs – and piglets. My grandsons make the yearly pilgrimage out to gather up their choice of little piglets to raise for 4-H and the West Alexander county fair. With them, they have won prizes.
To the left, behind the house, are grapevines in a long row. The clusters of grapes are still green and just starting to get a purple tint. Scattered among the vines are tall, tilting stalks of sunflowers, budded but not blooming. Another week, maybe.
Just right of the grapes is a small apple orchard. The ground beneath is littered with ripe, red apples, while the branches hang heavy with sweet fruit. A bag of those tasty apples will ride home in our car, destined for pies or apple sauce or baked apples. Or, maybe, munched with caramel dip or just cut and sliced.
Aunt Joan shares neighborhood news, and to us, it’s not important if we know those particular neighbors. We know the neighborhood, and the Amish community scattered throughout, and the history of our own decades of tramping through the fields, swimming with the cows in the pond across the road, or swinging high on the wooden seat secured to towering branches at the tree line.
Uncle Clifford shares his own stories, of tractors and hunters and crops, Alaskan vacations and missionary guests. It feels right and good to be there, to be a part of generations of stories, of family history, and of shared faith and love.
It’s not too long before Uncle Clifford bids us follow him to the gardens, acres that have been planted to beyond plentiful. He drives the red International Harvester, pulling a cart behind, ready for the bounty we will harvest that afternoon. We walk behind, skirting the corner row of gladiolas and zinnias, standing straight and still for the butterflies seeking nectar.
The rows of tall, thick cornstalks tower above our heads. There are at least two ears of corn on each stalk, full and ripe with brown silk spilling out the tip. Uncle Clifford parks, takes his ever-present knife, and starts whacking those ears loose in one swipe. It almost feels like walking through the jungle, machete in hand, lopping off the fruits of his labor.
And it WAS his labor. He planted those tiny corn seeds by hand, one at a time, and pushed the damp soil to cover them up. There was no machine to run the long rows, and no one coming behind to help with the task. Just him on his hands and knees on the fresh earth. And the reward was two-fold. Two full ears for each tiny seed. And he shares.
Once the two huge baskets were filled with ears of corn, we moved to the cabbage. Those heads of cabbage made bowling balls look like ping-pong balls. Kathy was walking around the vines, and I said she was looking for lost babies in the cabbage patch. No babies, but plenty of cabbage heads. We brought four home with us.
The gardens were spewing forth much more – not quite ready for picking yet. We saw long, tangled vines of squash, watermelons, onions, cantaloupe. Green beans and peas have already been picked. We each tucked a tomato into our baskets of bounty.
We sat again, chatting with cousins and great-cousins, and Mazie the dog. Peace blew across the fields, settling over us like a blanket. The bright red barn, the still waters of the pond. The hills, alive with the sounds of the music of life. Birds and butterflies and Amish buggies with friendly, waving drivers. The clip-clop of horse’s hooves on the packed, dirt roads. Giant limbs from the oaks and maples and birch dancing in the happy breeze, singing their own songs. The steady gurgle of the fresh mountain spring falling from the rocks in the woods. Can’t get a drink purer than that.
It’s hard to leave Home, and head home. But we do so with thankful hearts, blessings overflowing in our minds and in the boxes of shared love in the form of produce in my Buick.
Later that evening, I had an email from Beth. She had made the visit to Uncle Clifford and Aunt Joan a few hours after we left. Her sentiments equaled ours. “I could have sat there in the evening dusk, taking in the sounds and sights of country love, far into the night.”
But we can keep the memories of these times, the history with our family, with us for the future. We can be content to know that any day is a good day to head out Home.