An Afternoon on the Farm
by Sheila Path McMahon
Two hour van ride, carsick in the back. My family, actively a family, even during mundane tasks. Not like some families- mine loved to be together. Playing games and laughing. Listening to Dad’s jokes.
The only time we got upset was helplessly watching cars pass us in the left lane – admonishing dad, Step on it! Step on it. We’d wail like greek mothers upon learning a child was fated to die.The farm was like no place else we visited – even a gentler purgatory than the one we believed in. Illisium fields, had we ever heard of such a place, we would known we were there . Timeless, detached from space – country road C wound by like a thread back to the rest of the world = a world easily forgotton as a we walked back and forth on the gravel road from the mailbox to the farmouuse – Dad maintains that it had electricity in the end, but that’s not my memory of the place. Farmhouse. Still with it’s original tarpaper sides
Looked crooked as though it had been dropped by dorothoy’s tornado. No ruby slippers, though, I checked. Just field after field, on Grandpa’s poorly farmed farm.
With nothing to do, mom would say Go Play! And we would. Trounce out to what must be the center of a field of hay, my brother and sister and I would use our forearms to press down the grasstalks, forming mazes to crawl through. We marveled at bugs and flies, stalks that bulged with baby insects frightened and fascinated us. Our skin grew tan in the unending golden sunshine, and we didn’t run away from anything.