The Farmhouse

Yesterday, after dropping Erica off at school (I actually walk her to the playground and wait until the bell rings, which makes every kid there scream in a mix of excitement and dread) I wrote a piece that I really liked in a small notebook I keep in my purse. The dog had blocked the front door until I agreed to take her with us in the car - dogs are NOT allowed on school property, so she had to wait in he car. As usual, I felt guilty of this, so made a quick trip to the dog park in an effort to appease her (funny how I convince myself that she even noticed!). The dog park was opened just last year, and it is on the east end of acreage that has been preserved for the local historical value of the land and farm that once was the only thing around. The farmhouse, barn, and several outbuildings still stand, lonely but strong, representing a time long gone by. Here is what I wrote as the dog ran around the park.

A white farmhouse sitting at the crest of the hill, overlooks the sloped valley that includes a small pond. The once red shingled roof is now severely weathered, pockets of brown and gray streak the red tiles. The spire of the chimney sits high above the "A" peaked roof, paint peeling but strong and straight as the center of the house. Red shutters hang, but only on the east side of the house - others have fallen away from neglect. Alone the house sits, with just outbuildings accompanying it in it's quietness. The only thing that puts it in this modern time is the small satellite dish that sits low off the edge of the front porch, aimed at the sky. Take away the power lines and the traffic noise, and from where I sit I can imagine it's owners, she in the kitchen frying bacon, he pulling on scuffed work boots and heading to the barn to get the eggs, fresh under hens warm feathers. The small house in back, maybe having been the first built, holds her parents, willing to get away from the hard farm work and the steep stairs of the big house, but still on the property they set to plowing all those years ago.
The barn's roof - metal and streaked with years of rust, has held, and now the birds sit on the peak, watching right and left, chattering in the early morning's sun. Magpies, maybe, black with white tipped wings. A woodpecker calls out his cackle, establishing his presence in the farmyard. The brick is exposed on one corner - the rest showing the same peeling white paint as the other buildings. Rusty barrels and piles of scrap metal lay at the outer wall of the barn, among high grass that has grown up through.
The farmer opens the big door of the barn and leads out the horses, tossing out a bundle of hay which they eagerly munch. Only one cow now resides here, so milking her takes mere minutes, and when he is finished he heads back to the house, milk and eggs carefully balanced in his hands, and before he can reach the porch she cries out, "For goodness sake, please take off those dirty boots before you come in my kitchen!"