I always thought this was a magical place. My mother tells me stories of her life as a farmers’ daughter: skiing to school in the winter, eating piles of home made pancakes with her six siblings, her mother’s flower dresses, how she was lying on the green grass wondering to what distant worlds the passing airplane was taking it’s passengers, picking berries, helping out her parents with the farm work.
I also have memories of my own from this place. Summer days spent with my grandparents and my many cousins. Drinking home made juice in the garden, naming the new born calf of a cow, the old smoke sauna in the middle of the field, grandma weaving carpets in the attic, grandpa driving his tractor somewhere in the fields, the smell of fresh rye bread and the warmth of the oven. Playing hide and seek, dressing up in old clothing, eating wild strawberries, playing in the hundred year old playhouse. If I could be a child again just for one day I think I would spend it here.