Mail Boxes and Old Barns was a Sunday feature on the Treehouse until the spring of 2011 when the preparation for our move from Minnesota to Oregon overtook daily schedules and pretty much ended any meaningful writing production.  I’m trying to get ready to get writing again….but until then, here is a word picture from my family blog that hasn’t been shared before.  It’s somewhat shorter than the MBOB essays, but perhaps long enough to stir up some of your memories.  Enjoy.

When the air fills with the fragrance of the lilacs in the spring,
I’m taken back to warm summer afternoons where I hear the screendoor slam as someone goes in or comes out; where the bike chain slips in its usual way when I take off down the road; where the roller skate key isn’t in its usual place so I have to hunt for it.  I’m taken back to a place where there’s koolaid on the back porch and a bowl of fresh peaches that are dipped in sugar between every juicy, messy bite.
When I hear the singular sound of a John Deere tractor,
I hear security and predictability, even when others may chuckle a bit because they just hear a funny-sounding tractor.
And I remember the satisfaction when the John Deeres were shut down on Saturday night, for 36 hours.  Every week.  The Quiet Day of Rest included church in the morning, and reading, hunting, treeclimbing, picnics down in the pasture or visiting with neighbors in the afternoon.  Sunday afternoon visits to neighbors a mile or ten away didn’t require advance notice because it was understood that if you were at home, company was welcome.  The Singular Sound of a John Deere Tractor was never heard on Sunday unless someone’s vehicle had slid off a muddy or snowy road into the ditch and needed to be pulled out.
When I smell the original Watkins salve,
I’m back in the kitchen on a cold November night or on a windy April afternoon as Dad comes in for coffee, and the raw work of repairing barbed wire fences or dealing with a big barn door that slipped its track sends him to the trusty old red can where he spreads some farmer-style healing ointment over his hands.  Watkins Salve is the everyday remedy for the everyday damage from everyday chores and it’s all the first aid he ever needed.
When I hear “Largo” performed,
I’m back in the country church where Largo was The Command-Performance Prelude 52 Sundays A Year, including those Sundays on which there was A Substitute Organist on the electronic organ.
Substitute Organists from age fifteen to fifty always accepted without question the Predetermined Lifetime Selection of Largo as The Prelude.  It is played by Substitute Organists in such a Critically Accurate Manner that there will be no audible evidence of the absence of the organist.  It is also understood by the good ladies of this eastern Montana farm community that any variation in volume or organ settings would be seen as an effort to improve on The Regular Organist’s Rendition, so there will not be any “Variations On Largo.”
I’m the designated substitute for next Sunday so in my 15th summer on a Thursday afternoon  we’re at the country church and I’m practicing Largo with the designated settings.  I play it again.  And again.  And again.
When Mom is satisfied that I have achieved Reproducible Critical Accuracy, we drive home over four miles of dusty roads in the 1953 robins egg blue Ford to get supper started before Dad comes in from the fields.
Good times.  Very good times.

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