The pot bellied stove in the middle of the room
Sweeping the floor with a misshaped broom
Clothes washing in the wringer washing machine
Blowing our breath in the cold air to be seen.

The church standing stately in the country air
After services -dinner and fellowship- now so rare
The sweet smell of fresh baking bread and apple pie
Birds in a symphony so beautiful, it makes one cry

Drawing in the dust with a stick for a pen
Gathering eggs warm, from under the old laying hen
Fishing with an old cane pole down by the creek
Playing tag with a group, or maybe hide and seek

Stepping on thistles in our unshod feet
Walking down the dusty lane; our mailman to meet
Building a snowman and sledding down a steep hill
Catching the snow as it built on our window sill

Making angels in the snow with the moon for our light
While the glistening snowflakes sparkled with delight
Going for dinner that grandma had prepared, all homemade
These are the memories that even time cannot fade.

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