My father was already at the guest house when I arrived, as was H. I sat briefly with Dad after bringing in the mother load of cheese and other treats for the next day's 'mezze' but then began itching to walk around and see if the memories I had of the place matched up with its reality. And it did.
I've come to terms with the fact that I am not really someone who could actually be a farmer, but I've lately wondered if there's a way to live on a farm to soak in its essence without necessarily having to get up at 5 in the morning (or earlier) every day for the rest of my life. I completely understand that being a farmer, whether the sort raising cattle or growing corn, is hard and I know not to romanticize that existence ... but damn they work hard in a pretty place. I'd like to work hard in a pretty place, even if my work was on a computer. Things to think about.
Just ridiculously pretty.
The guest house, exactly as I remember it. With the exception of kittens underneath the kitchen door's entrance and a sanctuary type room off of the living room. After my first walk about I sat on the porch with Dad and H. for a bit. But then I got antsy and wanted to take another walk to the river, which I did.
This is a nest in a bush by the porch.
This is me midway to the river.
I couldn't stand the glare of the pretty, so I put my sunglasses on.
I've been pretty liberal with photoshop and not all of these photographs are truly color correct. But I think they best represent the way I saw it, even if things weren't quite so green or contrasty.
There had been a fair amount of rain in the last week, so the banks of the river were quite high.
The river. It is behind me.
The river is behind those trees, which are behind this Jesus. And the house is in front of Jesus across the small gravel/dirt road.
I have more thoughts about beauty and country and memory. But I'll have to expound upon them at a later point in time.
I've come to terms with the fact that I am not really someone who could actually be a farmer, but I've lately wondered if there's a way to live on a farm to soak in its essence without necessarily having to get up at 5 in the morning (or earlier) every day for the rest of my life. I completely understand that being a farmer, whether the sort raising cattle or growing corn, is hard and I know not to romanticize that existence ... but damn they work hard in a pretty place. I'd like to work hard in a pretty place, even if my work was on a computer. Things to think about.
Just ridiculously pretty.
The guest house, exactly as I remember it. With the exception of kittens underneath the kitchen door's entrance and a sanctuary type room off of the living room. After my first walk about I sat on the porch with Dad and H. for a bit. But then I got antsy and wanted to take another walk to the river, which I did.
This is a nest in a bush by the porch.
This is me midway to the river.
I couldn't stand the glare of the pretty, so I put my sunglasses on.
I've been pretty liberal with photoshop and not all of these photographs are truly color correct. But I think they best represent the way I saw it, even if things weren't quite so green or contrasty.
There had been a fair amount of rain in the last week, so the banks of the river were quite high.
The river. It is behind me.
The river is behind those trees, which are behind this Jesus. And the house is in front of Jesus across the small gravel/dirt road.
I have more thoughts about beauty and country and memory. But I'll have to expound upon them at a later point in time.
3 comments:
A perfect compromise would be to live on a farm farmed by someone who wants to farm while you do the other work that pays the bills to keep the farm going. I have baaaaad hankerings for a place in the country. With a creek if not a river. Sigh. Looks beautiful.
The motherlode of cheese, yes I can see it.
Wonderful memories, wonderful conversations, wonderful people. Thanks for this, C.
I recently read "Islandia" by Austin Tappan Wright. It is a long and very slow novel that developed a strange attraction, mainly, I think, because it describes (utopian) life in a very much farm-based society.
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