spokesNspin

Today for Friday Foto Fiesta I have the view from the living room window of the home where I grew up.

This window faces East.  When I was a young boy I liked to lie on carpet in front of this window as the sun would come up.  It would shine through the window and warm me up.  I would feel snug as a bug in rug.

That always made me think about how cats enjoyed a prime spot on a hay stack where they would bask in the sunshine.

The view from this window was always changing based on the season and time of day.  This picture appears to be early spring.  The fields look wet and there is still snow in the mountains.

The field outside the window was irrigated farm land.  During the season it might have alfalfa, wheat, barley or corn growing.  In my earliest years sweet peas or bush beans may have also been there. 

When corn was there, late in the season it would block much of the view.  That  made my mother cuss about how the corn ruined her view.

In the winter, livestock might be turned out in the field.  You would see 30 head of cattle or half a dozen horses grazing on crop aftermath.  On a cold day the livestock would be huddled up against the fence with frost on their hides and vapor from their breath floating in the air.

The field above the white house in the distance was dry land farming.  It would have a big field of wheat.  The blowing wind would make it look like a rolling sea.

The colors of the mountains in the distance also changed with the time of day and season.  The early morning  sun would come up over it as a giant orange ball.  In the evening, the  setting sun would shine on the slopes.  The mountains would slowly change through several twilight colors and shadows as sunset turned to nightfall.

I always thought those mountains looked colder with the first dusting of an early fall snow storm than they did completely covered in winter.

Look to the left and you can see the fence line for the road if you can’t make out the road.  Up the road a little way is an orange brick church.  You can see the white steeple.  

The back row is where many of the old people sat.   The women of  that generation all wore hats and white gloves to church.  The men on the other hand, were hatless.  It was just about the only time during the week they didn’t wear a hat.   It was a bunch of men with hair slicked back and the tanned faces, white brows and pale pates of men who worked outside on the farm the rest of the week.

They had done their best to scrub off a week’s worth of dirt.  Some of them still carried a slight smell that was an  aromatic cocktail of barnyard and chlorine milking parlor cleaner.

My brother and I often sat by grandma and she would entertain us by folding her hankie into a baby swinging in a cradle.  I carried on the skill and have done the same for my children.

That is the church of the faith of my youth.  The “Gospel” became such a big part of my life.  Now I question much of it but still can’t leave it.  It’s like a scratchy woolen blanket that irritates but provides comfort.

Look beyond the church and there is the red brick house of Grandma and Grandpa Talbot.

My brother and I probably walked thousands of miles in trips up that lane to see them.  Along the way we would throw rocks at the power lines.  When we managed to hit one we were rewarded with a very satisfying ping.

Once we found a dead frog and put it in the neighbor’s mailbox.  There was much to entertain along the way.

When mom served food we didn’t like she would make us sit in our chairs until we ate it.  She would finally give up and let us go but warn us about how hungry we would get before the next meal.

She knew that we would make a beeline up the road to Grandma where we would get some cookies and a good story.

Well that photo fiesta became rather sappy and sentimental.  I didn’t start out intending for it to be that way.  It’s just amazing how a picture can lead one to so many thoughts.

It is true that you can never go home again.

This entry was posted on Friday, July 25th, 2008 at 4:05 am and is filed under Misc. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.