The Old Farm

Hello Zofia,

A very nice memoir posting, but I felt like it needed to keep going when I got to the end of what you posted here. Bring us full circle from where you started the story and perhaps weave in the experience in the restaurant somehow. Please take this as constructive criticism, meant to help. You've got a very nice story going here, and I hope you'll continue to work on it.
Nancy (who still can't help being the teacher!)

I, too, did not want the memories to stop there. It would be good to know more about why 10 years after your father's death you felt the need to see the old home.
Maybe this is just the first segment of your autobiography. What other memories of living there do you have and what happened in the years to come?

Ah yes, it can be heartbreaking to "go home again," especially when it's not where you left it. Very enjoyable memories you've shared with us. Please do post a "sequel" one of these days. We want to hear more. Carol

so wonderful you still have the memories. I specially liked the line "where the winter frost painted white ice gardens on the window panes." I've saw this many times but never thought of them being ice gardens. Mine were mountains. Post us more memories. Gail

Such vivid memories done so well, Zofia, but to a disappointing abrupt end. You have the makings of a grand story teller. Hope to see mch more.....Kathe

I have a notebook where I collect "really cool" one-liners, among other things that I read. This is what I collected from you.
"The kindness of strangers is a warm gift, not so much in what is given but that it is given."
Thank you.

I collect in a notebook lines from other authors that are really far-reaching and I think important bits of wisdom that I do not want to forget. You gave me one in this piece and it is: "The kindness of strangers is a warm gift, not so much what is given, but that it is given" Thank you.
Roger J

Beautiful story, but leaves me feeling sad--wanting to know more about the MC and her reaction to such great loss. I could wish for another paragraph or two. I recall going back once to the place of my childhood, finding everything changed, developed, modernized. I could feel a lump in my throat; I never returned. What would be the point. Memories are better when no one tampers with the present that destroys the sweetness. Going back is rarely the same; they call it progress, but I wonder.... Janet