Monday when it rained we hung out in Mesa, and stopped over at my parents for awhile. My mom is reading a memoir by a man who grew up on a farm in southwestern Minnesota, not far from where she grew up. At one point she asked me: "What do you remember about the old farm house?" (It has been torn down for many years.) So, because Mom asked, this is what I remember:
I always used to say to my mom when I was a little girl: "I wish we could live on the farm!" I loved to visit so much. She replied, "You don't have any idea what you are asking." Now, I think, I would like to know.
- grandma's huge strawberry patch, the biggest part of her large garden
- fresh tomato juice served in the colorful rooster pitcher, when we had breakfast in the dining room
- grandpa coming up from the basement. he was the only one who ever went down there, as far as I know
- the way you had to take a step up from the kitchen into the dining room.
- the slanted roof on the kitchen (actually, I think the floor was kind of slanted too).
- taking baths in the kitchen sink
- grandma's upright piano in the living room
- the "girl's bedroom" upstairs, with the dressing table and walk-in closet
- when the phone rang, and grandma would say "it's not our ring." How strange!
- my aunt telling me scary stories one Christmas Eve at bedtime, so I would not get up in the middle of the night and look around for presents
- the front porch
- the doll carriage I found, and the kittens I gave rides in it
- the time we drove down Highway 71 and went right past the farm! My grandparents had moved into town. My aunt and uncle now lived in the farmhouse. I was six years old, and it was a traumatic experience.
I always used to say to my mom when I was a little girl: "I wish we could live on the farm!" I loved to visit so much. She replied, "You don't have any idea what you are asking." Now, I think, I would like to know.
