Scenes from Easter

I know I've mentioned it before, but I have to say it again.  I love my grandparents' farm.

They seem to think that the farm is theirs, but in reality it's mine.

It's been mine since 1975, the year I was born and the year they moved in together at this farm.

The farm is mostly retired.  The land, the buildings, my grandparents.  The few animals that still live there are also retired.

But, right now, the farm is busy.  The farm sits right under the direct yearly route of snow geese, swans, and other rare migrating birds.  Every three minutes the air fills with boisterous honks and coos as hundreds of birds at a time make their way to their summer homes.

The farm is my absolute, hands down, favorite place to be and spring is the best season ever.

So last weekend was pretty good.

For most of us anyway.

The farm house is decorated with a hundred coats of pastel paint and dust.

It's a study in wear and aging on all sorts of surfaces.  Metal, fabric, people.

It's where you can find the detritus from four different generations casually piled up on a dresser.

And where every part of a closet is crammed to capacity but nothing hangs from dozens of hangers over two rods on top.

I cherish the paradox that is my grandparents farm.  I think it's where I learned to have a sense of humour about life.

And my sense of time, when the etchings of the past constantly vie for attention in the here and now.

I always bring something home from grandma's.  This time it was a stool made by a boy who stayed at the farm for a year thirty years ago.  I will have to show you it soon.
I also brought home one of my great aunt Millie's quilts to repair.I'm pretty sure it's at least as old as I am. 

There are some odd rust stains on it, a couple of ripped patches to cover and the edging is entirely gone.  It won't be a complete restoration but hopefully I can bring it back into usable condition.

Take my own place in history.