A Little Less Homemade

Growing up, every spring and summer and sometimes in between
My family would escape to our farm in West Virginia.
Our farm is a large white house with a giant front porch,
there is a stream with lots and lots of rocks to climb on,
there is an old barn that used to have hay stacked to the ceiling
and there is 126 acres that are basically untouched by the rushing world around it.
In this place where many of my childhood memories were made lived a lady and her husband who were old fashion through and through.
There names were Mason and Georgia Strawder.
They lived on the farm down the old dirt road from ours.
They always had cows,
chickens,
sometimes a pig,
a dog,
and a cat.
Mrs. Strawder used to let Amy and I watch her milk her cows,
then Mr. Strawder would let us watch him separate the cream from the milk,
then we would carry the milk back to the house.
Their garden was plentiful,
their house was small.
She made delicious cake,
She churned her own butter,
She hand sewed quilts.
But, sadly she passed away just the other day,
and all of a sudden,
the world seems a little less homemade.
Goodnite Ms. Georgia.