Day # 51 LW told me this (and more) at a nursing home in Whitefield, NH. She wept as I read it back to her. When I was so young I could hardly walk, I used to go out in the field and find flowers, daisies, clover, a few black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace, of course. Once in a while a deer would cross my path. I would talk to it and it would look at me as if it knew what I was saying. I could tell by the way the eyes opened and closed and twinkled. Oh, I hope you won’t get shot. Listen to your mother and have a good life. I would stop and sit by the brook looking down at the water hoping to find a little fish. I hardly ever found one. By the side of the brook was a beautiful springhouse. I could sit on the board inside and peer down into deep rock-ringed well that flowed down to the brook. There several dippers hanging on a nail, a blue one, a white one with red trim and a black-speckled one, all with long handles. I’d take what looked appealing at that particular time, and bring up the cold, sparkly water. The overflow would go down your neck and cool you off. Then you’d go and make a little house in the grass with square rooms, kitchen, living room, dining room, bedroom, You’d lay down in the bedroom, take a little nap, and wake up cold. “It’s starting to get dark. I’d better get home and eat.” “Mom, do you know where I was?” My mother would say, “Yes, you were in the back field. I could see you all the time.”
Posted on: Sun, 12 Oct 2014 00:08:14 +0000
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