This morning, I pulled a small greeting card – the last of its box – from my stationery drawer in anticipation of sending it off in the mail. I lingered for a while before putting pen to paper, looking at the snow-covered scene, with its red barns and other outbuildings, a silo, a line of cattle heading to the shelter of the barn, and memories seemed to cover me much like soft falling snow. Sitting in the truck with my father, suffused with self-importance at having him to myself, and savoring the responsibility of being his helper as we drove through a landscape of white fields and black (not red!) barns.
The last greeting card in the box, and a trigger of many recollections. Card art by Michelle Barnes.
Sometimes we would fill the back of the truck with ear corn, and the he would drive slowly, slowly forward as I stood up in the bed of the truck, shoveling corn out to a line of following cattle. Other times, when the snowfall arrived in early spring – at the same time as early calves – we would criss-cross each field, looking out for small lumps that might be newborn calves.
Of course, the barns of my childhood were all painted black, and a snowman never frolicked out on the farm, but the scene of this card brought me – a feeling of peace. I suppose it is the peace of childhood, of being protected and safe, when the most difficult decisions I faced were what book to read next or whether to have chicken noodle soup with your peanut butter and jelly sandwich and chocolate milk.
A snowy day from my youth.
It’s been such a wretched year – I think we can all agree that 2020 has been tough. And now that I am a parent, decisions are agonizing, and peace seems to be in short supply. I went from being a full-time professional to struggling to work 20 hours a week, fitting in my work around my children’s needs.
The snowy scene on a mass-produced greeting card wiped all of that out for a moment – the frustration, the fear, the overwhelming fatigue of not enough hours in the day – and for a few moments, I was six years old, bundled up in so many layers that I simply would have bounced had I fallen, chattering away to my ever-patient father, and marveling at how a snowfall could change the look and feel of the world so completely.
Lovely!
Lovely reminder, thanks for sharing JRB.
This falls in the “blog posts that make me want to cry” category. Miss you and everyone else so much!! love from your favorite middle sister 🙂
This is so wonderful that it stopped completely in my tracks. Much love to you💞
Thanks for sharing.
While the Year of Covid has been difficulty, in my Outer Highlands neighborhood I’m often reminded of my childhood in the 60’s. People are home playing and riding bikes with their kids. When the fire truck came through and stopped because of a small garage fire, I could see over 40 people out looking. This would get at most 5 normally. One family built an addition with teen age sons. Everyone walks the dog and talks. Silver linings in quiet times.
If you substituted red for black for the color of the barn, and hay rather than corn for the feed for the cattle, your story could be my story of my special moments of being with my dad on our farm in Franklin County. Even the picture of a snowy day could have been taken of the field facing our kitchen window.
Thanks for sharing your memories.
Your writing takes me right back to my childhood. I love this piece so much. This year I ordered Christmas cards that made me feel just like you’ve described. The cards have a red barn (but ours were black or natural wood), a horse, and a snow-filled field. Just looking at the card makes me feel happy and safe.
Thanks for this sweetness.
Wishing that all children can experience the peace you found.
Oh Janie, had you not written this lovely piece I would never again remembered how cows laboriously, almost ceremoniously made their way to the barn. As I child I wondered how it could be that a farmer could drive his pickup so slowly, yet smoothly. I wondered – could a woman do that?
Your blog is often a balm, even when you highlight the reality that loss is an eternal process. It cannot be stopped. Eventually all the works of man decay and then disappear.
I anticipate December – that time when the light is clear but thin. It sends notice of the coming of Winter. It’s the light in the evocative card you’ve shared. Oddly, it depresses some people. It’s calming to me.
Annie