The Twenties - Old Brown House
 
God's hand passes over the eastern sky and behold a new day is born; ribbons of light
creep upward then the sun's first rays touch the hills and soon the valley feels their
warmth. Thus in stillness the day begins. And work begins, the day wearing into a hazy
noon, a time for brief rest for men and beasts.
 
At noon I lie on the thick grass watching the seed pods and the sheen of long webs
shimmering against the deep blue of the sky and the soft white of gulls as they circle
high in the air.
 
In almost every day one can find a bit of grandeur, a cause for thanks; but God must
have made some of these autumnal days flawless so that even the unseeing might see ¹
their perfection and be moved in humble gratitude.
 
Soon the work begins again and the beauty and bounty of long rows of newly dug
potatoes as the plow uncovers them, the golden pumpkins amid the shocks of corn, the
red of apple trees all signs of a bountiful harvest, filling heart and mind with thanks and
well being.
 
To the north the green pasture with a gently flowing stream and the cows nibbling grass
or idly switching at the flies. Rest time and evening shadows come.
To the east the small town resting on its hills, now in the waning light the white houses,
the red brick schoolhouse clear cut against the eastern sky, a picture of peace.
 
The long shadows reach across the valley and the hush of dusk settles down, the
windows of the old brown house give forth the yellow glow of lamp light. It's a time for bedtime stories and to tuck two little boys into bed. After the gentle stories, their eyelids
soon close in slumber.
¹
Time for reading or other homely chores before the good brown house settles down to
quiet rest. The harvest moon tops the hills and floods the valley and thus ends one 
perfect day far in the garden of my memory.