recycle Monday (Look at the original for a grammar fix. Oops.)
It’s a tired old mountain surrounding us, a tired old man with bristly pine whiskers, who lays down on his side in rumpled clothes—lays down to sleep soundly, sinking deeper into the rocky Canadian Shield, a Rip Van slumber.
The flat valley below is laid out like crazy quilt blocks of lavender-touched green alfalfa and glistening grains, waving in breezes, Holstein Friesians dotting the landscape like fine stitches.
The long dirt lane leads nowhere and everywhere, but always home. Home—a century-old, red brick, tin-roofed house that shelters six girls, one slightly spoiled boy, and an inventor-farmer who cherishes his Dorothy.
The doors are left unlocked to strangers, kids, and sometimes cats, and the phone rings a long and a short on the party line. Flapping laundry stretches pole to pole in front of the new garage, awaiting desecration by a dirty combine, followed by sincerest apologies.
There’s a garden to weed and…
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