Funny how when you’re younger you think you have the world in your hands. Time seems to stop, frozen in time, as you’re convinced time is on your side. As a child, thirty seems downright old. You’ll stay a kid forever you think, and your world, as you know it now, is just as it should be.
Now that I’m nearing that magic number in my life, I’d give anything to relive just one day of my childhood down on my great-grandmother’s farm. Those carefree days ridding the world of your problems, as only children can do.
My great-grandmother, or Doll as she was known to those closest to her, was every child’s dream as far as grandmothers go. My mother and I would often take weekend trips two hours south of our hometown to visit Doll and Grandpa.
Oh how those weekend trips were magical. As we’d travel along the last stretch of road, a long, winding gravel path, just wide enough for one car to fit down comfortably, we’d pass pastures of rolled hay bales and neighboring farms, my excitement growing more prevalent with each mile. Making the last turn on their road, miles from the closest town, I could almost taste the decadent flavor of Cherry Squares that were always sitting waiting for me on the kitchen counter. I could almost taste the peanut butter fudge chilling in the refrigerator.
Doll’s and Grandpa’s old homestead showed its charm to all who visited. My closest girlfriends often made the trip with us to visit the serene countryside in The Plains for a weekend retreat.
Upon crossing over the small creek on the gravel bridge, which signaled the end of our trip as the old farmhouse loomed over us on the hill to our left, Trixie, their Burmese Mountain dog could always be counted on to greet you cheerfully and lead you the rest of the way.
