Ladyrebecca's Musings and Ramblings

The Increasingly Political Thoughts of Rebecca (Becky) Walker

A Day at the Farm (part one): Some freewriting exercises April 4, 2007

Filed under: Anecdotal — Addicted to Yarn @ 8:38 pm

This was a free writing exercise I did. It has had no editing whatsoever. There are parts that don’t line up-I guess my mind doesn’t line up. Anyway…here you are…A Day at the Farm (part one)…

We leave the farm house, being careful to not let Goldie out. I pat her on her curly head before following my sister out.

The sun is bright, the air hot as we run down the porch steps. Grass whips our bare legs and we swat at real or imagined pests.

When we get to the fence my sister goes through first while I hold the barbed wires apart. Then she holds them apart for me. I scratch my leg on a barb but pay it no mind.

We climb to the top of the hill. Here the dirt has worn away to reveal the rock beneath. It feels like an archaeological dig or some such thing.

I dig around, looking for interesting rocks to add to the rock collection. The rocks here have a tinge of blue to them, often running in strips. i find one and brush the coarse dirt from it. I study it and slip it in my pocket when it passes inspection.

The wind picks up, blowing my hair into my eyes. I whip my ponytail behind me but the fly aways continue to blow around my face.

I breath deeply and smell far away cattle. I smell grasses and my own sweat. I smell remnants of woodsmoke from my clothes. Even during the summer, the farm smells of woodsmoke and all that resides here picks up the fragrant aroma.

I hear the dogs bark and then the crunch of gravel. I look down and see my grandpa’s red pickup coming down the lane. I holler to Angie but she ignores me. I holler again, reminding her that we aren’t supposed to be past the fence. She sticks out her tongue. I slip past the crest of the hill and lay in the grass. It tickles my legs and arms.

The grass smells much stronger here. I scratch absentmindedly as I listen to the rumble of male voices and the cheery sound of my grandmother.

The slap of the screen door and the muffling of the voices announces the all-clear signal.

I continue to lay in the grass, ignoring the insect bites, sure to swell up later. I turn onto my back and look up at the blue sky. I allow my eyes to unfocus and begin to see the dust in the air. It sparkles and shimmers and I imagine it’s fairies or fairy dust.

My imagination drifts and my eyes drift shut. They snap open again when I hear my mother shout my name and my sister’s name, calling us in.

Angie and I sneak down the hill, through the fence and back into the yard. I pass the old water pump wondering as I do every time I see it, if wasps would really pour out of it if I pumped it. I’m not sure if it really happened or if I’ve simply been warned so often I think it happened.

We hurry inside, again keeping the cocker spaniel out, and wash our hands in the bathroom. Angie needs to go so on my way out I fight the accordion door closed.

I sit down at the table to a big slice of grandma’s cherry pie. The whole house smells of baking. Cherry and apple pies cover the table. A lemon meringue pie cools on the counter, its crusty browned top beggin to be sliced.

The crust is flaky and sweet, the filling is still warm. It’s rich, sweet and thick. The apples are still a bit firm, not mushy. I eat the whole piece, except the last of the crust which I give to my mom.

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