It was a day that seemed to belong to another era. I walked the neighborhood wetlands loop as I often do, but this day I viewed it as though it was 1950. Back then the land was mostly covered by a lake; but the moss-covered, decaying fence posts suggest that it was also farm land. The numerous apple, cherry, and hazelnut trees still bordering the loop speak wistfully of an orchard that once was.
Later that day, a bright blue, cloud-embellished sky formed a picturesque backdrop for the laundry hanging on the line. An early spring breeze danced mischievously among the linens. The weather was warm enough to invite nature to slowly dry the sheets, yet brisk enough for the same blue backdrop to showcase a lazy trail of smoke issuing from the farmhouse chimney. Although I was simply driving by the home, I felt in that moment as though I had again been swept back in time. All was slow: the sky seemed bluer, the clouds whiter, the sun-kissed sheets cleaner, the wood stove-heated home warmer.
I had been on the property before. Often as a child, we visited the farm to gather a delicious harvest of Italian prunes, peaches and hazelnuts.