Saturday afternoon, Dan headed over to my Grandpa Sayre's farm to chop
and split some wood. He took Mary and Emma with him. When Elizabeth
woke up from her nap, she was heartbroken, that everyone had gone to
Grandpa's without her. So we jumped in the car together and headed
over.
We got there, just as the first hints of nightfall were arriving. The
sun was leaving it's warming golden glow on every hillside and slipping
between the trees.
I'm so glad I thought to throw the camera in the front seat of the
car with me because I couldn't even make it up Grandpa's long driveway
without having to pull over and take a few photographs.
When we finally pulled into the house, I could hear the chain saw,
but couldn't see Dan anywhere. Down over the steep back hill, I found
him slowly taking apart a downed Ash tree.
Elizabeth and I started the hike over the hill, knowing (and
thankful) that we could get a ride back to the top in the truck. The
girls met us from behind a few strides down the hill–they'd been down
in the barn, jumping in the corn and checking out the cows.
When Dan finished, and we finally got back up to Grandpa's house, he
came out to say goodbye. We stood there for a long time, the girls
playing in the back of the truck, Grandpa and Dan talking about
property lines, woodburners, farming and politics.
And I stood back, making sure no one toppled out of the truck bed and
soaking in the scenery as the light changed from golden yellow to deep
blues, to pink, to dark purple.
At one point I stood with the sun setting at one shoulder, the moon reaching into the sky at the other.
It was remarkable.
Grandpa told the girls how, on nights like this, he comes out to
those chairs and watches the clouds and waits for the deer to come out
of the woods. And how just a few nights ago, he counted 37.
Some light rain finally chased us home–dirty children, a tired, sore and hungry husband.
As I pulled out of the driveway, waving to my girls sitting three across in the truck, all I could think was how blessed I
am, we are. To have places like this to come to. To have views like
this to cherish. To have people like Grandpa to share stories with and
love. To have strong bodies to do work. Warm homes to protect us in
bitter cold. And a place like this, and people like you to mark the
moment, and share those feelings of fullness and contentment that come
at the end of a day like this.
