Country Roads

Story ID:	957
Written by:	K. L. Farnum
Story type:	Story
Location:	Vine Grove U. S. A.
Year:	1933
Person:	To My Son and Family

Country Roads


Along a two lane highway going nowhere, going somewhere, you pass by mobile homes up gravel driveways, old homes and new. But always the same thing can be seen. Here and there, on a hill or in a hollow, there stands a shanty with broken windows where curtains used to hang. The ghosts of children's faces can be seen if one looks hard enough. The flicker of a kersene lamp dances across the paper laden walls. The paint is chipped, and broken furniture lies all about. A broken cup, a broken saucer, a dinner platter that might have adorned one's Sunday breakfast table, piled high with pancakes, dripping with home made butter. The smell of bacon and sausage intermingled with the pancakes, and the scent of the maple syrup makes my mouth water.

An old headboard leans against the far wall of this two room house, and one thinks of who has lived? and who has died here? What were they like? Time has taken it's toll , here in the silence of the old house, but if one listens, one can hear the laughter of children, the moan of a woman, as she gives birth, the cry of a new born baby, a father saying grace over the family meal.

A broken vase lies on the floor under the window, the flowers now dry and brittle from age. There in the corner of the smallest room lies a broken doll. A little freckled-faced girl with long brown hair, wearing a blue flowered feed-sack dress that hangs to her ankles, stands in the shadows, and only dirty little toes can be seen from beneath the dress. Her face and hands are clean, and her hair is brushed untii it shines. A little toe-headed boy of two or three plays quietly with a little scrawny yellow kitten and a ball of mothers yarn. Standing in front of an old sink is a woman who appears to be in her forties. Her hands are rough, her face weather-beaten, but her brown eyes dance and sparkle, and her lips are soft and pink. She wears a faded yellow dress with patches here and there, and again no shoes.

An old iron kettle dangles over a log fire in the fire place, as flames flicker, rising up and surrounding the old black pot. The aroma is intoxicating. A pot of coffee sits on a corner stone keeping warm, and an old red dog is curled upon a rag rug in front of the fire, warding off the chill in the early morning air.

Outside the morning sun has peaked above the tree tops, as a squirrel chatters in the old oak tree that stands at the corner of the porch. An old rickety rocking chair, rocks back and forth in a silent breeze. An old worn clothesline goes from one tree to another. A brightly colored quilt, and an old faded yellow spread hangs from the line, as a little red pup tugs and growls as he pulls on a corner of the spread.

Dew has dampened the grass so that when one looks, it appears the lawn, or what there is of it, is laden with silver beads, as the sun slowly flows across it. Flowers bloom in a garden, amongst the carrot tops, potatoes, cabbage, lettuce, and tomatoes. Wooden toys litter the yard, as an old tire swing flows back and forth, as if a child were swinging there.

In the distance I can hear the bleating of sheep, and the persistent mooing of a cow. A few chickens flutter in place as I walk past them, and they harshly scold me. A rooster is pearched upon a fence post overlooking the whole scene. In the distance I can hear the rumble of a tractor as dawn brings life to the old farm. A feeder hangs from the oak tree, and a variety of birds flutter in and out, fussing when one pushes the other out of the way.

The honk of a horn and the screech of tires awakens me from my dream, and as I walk away, I think of how wonderful it would have been to have lived in that world that is now gone. It is gone for years to come, never to be remembered, except in one's dreams.

@ K.L. Farnum