Farmhouse Remembrances

The smell of frying bacon reminded her of the farmhouse in which she was raised.  Mary harkened back to farmer Bill, a tall and lanky drink of water, and to Velma, his wife.  She was orphaned at three, this gentle soul named Mary, and was placed by the Country in the care of gentle folk who had a farm. 

From the diner in which she sat she inhaled the wafting odor of bacon with eyes closed.  Another scene emerged in her consciousness; the blue kitchen walls, the chipped china and the old coffee pot that looked like it came out Marshall Dillon’s office on the set of Gunsmoke.

The waitress came over and offered her more coffee.  Mary smiled and thanked her, then closed her eyes and continued seeing images of the farm on State Line Road. 

A bullet hole in blue tile.  Yes, she could not shake such a stark image, where once, someone out in the field no doubt, shot at the farmhouse.  Thing is, the bullet entered right where Velma had always sat drinking her coffee.  Mary shuddered at what might have been.  Velma escape that bullet, all right; Mary remained thankful of divine intervention, perhaps, and then regained the present when the waitress, ponytailed and white-uniformed, brought the plate with bacon, eggs and toast.

Mary beamed like sunshine and nodded graciously.  The blonde waitress took another order of people two booths down.  Mary tried to concentrate on her breakfast, but her eyes closed and she again was back at the farm on State Line Road, and was in the corn field—a towering miasma of green stalks surrounding a little girl who found it a wondrous hiding place.  Here she could escape from the world, from bullies at school, from her own sense of loneliness and insecurities, for the cornfield was a friend, a fortress, a protector that nature was all to glad to provide.

Wintertime saw snow drifts hip high and the long and winding driveway.  Mary slogged through like some intrepid adventurer of ten, battled the cold, white sky fall as if she were the hero of some great novel.

Come spring, the barn provided refuge and safety as well, with so many places to hide and explore and just relax away from all things and everyone.  Here, Mary would attend to the meanderings of her fertile imagination, journeying to places full of cold and music and soft animals and clear sky at night.  Even the old, yellow tractor, with its rusted seat and pitchforks and hoes leaning against it like spent soldiers, made her grin, and provided a sense of security she welcomed greatly.

All this reminiscing was done in a flash, yet that flash was time precious.  Mary opened her eyes, inhaled the hickory scent of bacon, and ate her breakfast with her countenance aglow, and her mind at ease.


480 Words
Writer’s Cramp
9-21-17