One of our favorite places to collapse after a busy day of farm work is our porch swing. With a view of our pond, we share ice-cream cones, as our Cardigan Corgi sits at our feet, waiting to snatch the tips of the cones. Other evenings, I might stretch my leg along the seat and read a few pages in a book or knit a couple of rounds on a mitten while a hermit thrush’s silver voice ripples from the nearby woods.
The swing is a waypoint, located between the shelter of the house and the endless farm share ice into the orchard and blueberry fields. While plans and daily jobs might be discussed on the porch, the swing offers respite from the actual labors. Instead, our orange kitty,
In the spring of 1986, John and our newly adopted sons rocked in the swing, each lad holding his stuffed bunny, an Easter gift from their grandparents. When we worked in the blueberry patch, our sons went with us. Sometimes they ran around nearby or wandered the row, following a butterfly, but on that mild day, they had raced up Blueberry Hill and rolled down it, over and over. Laughing, shouting, they reminded me of puppies tussling. The smiles on their faces proclaim the joy of farm life.