The farmhouse

 If I could go back in time to a country farmhouse sometime in the 1940s, this is what I would see.

The house itself was busy, serving as the hub for the family and farmhands, who gathered in the kitchen every morning as coffee mugs were filled and chores to be done were assigned. It was harvest time, and twenty acres of land were yielding their bounties so people could be fed throughout the coming winter months.

All around the land, bursts of autumn colors make you take notice of God's handiwork, and you stop for a moment to soak it all in before the land grows dark and the colors say goodbye until next year. Farming after the war was hard, as one son didn't make it back home; his laughter was missed, and his picture in uniform was displayed on a small table in the hallway, a constant reminder of the love and respect of everyone.

Inside the old wooden house, furniture was scarce, with most rooms having only hardwood floors and a crude mattress. There was a radio that played music of the times, bringing dad to the house for a quick dance step between husband and wife, who shooed him away so she could get on with dinner.

The eldest son shot a big turkey, at least thirty pounds, that would easily feed everyone, with some left over for turkey sandwiches everybody craved the day after. On the last Thursday, Thanksgiving was observed on the farm. The farmhands would put on their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and have a seat at the extended table, where, one by one, they would name one thing they were grateful for.

Outside, the tractor lay quiet with the fields stripped of the bounty, except for the ones that didn't make the cut and were left for the animals to enjoy their own thanksgiving.

With a cup of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie, the men talked about the harvest and gave thanks for this year's crops. In the kitchen, the woman boxed up lunches for the farmhands who would be leaving and heading South, where the fruits would be waiting to be picked. Envelopes were given to the men, filled with their final pay and a bonus for their hard work.

The next morning, the sounds of old trucks could be heard as the small caravan headed down the dirt road for points south. The farmer and his wife stood on the porch, waving them goodbye until the dust settled and they were gone. Back inside the house, an eerie quiet surrounded them as they sat at the table with a cup of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie, the wife had hidden away for just this moment, bringing a smile to the dad's face and a gentle squeeze on the hand of his wife showing him in a simple way how the two of them made it all happen one more time.

Christmas was knocking at the door, and soon the kids and grandkids would visit, bringing laughter, joy, and memories of years passed. Mom's kitchen came alive once more with holiday goodies and hours of fun for the kids playing in the hay loft.

Life on this land changed with the seasons, each one special in its own way. But some things never change as traditions are honored and the elders share stories to eager ears of the children. There are seasons' worth of love that fill the old farmhouse, as the radio still plays and dad asks mom for a twirl around the wooden floor.

Mike 2025