Summer

The summer is always spectacular in the woods. There you may sit solitaire, but never once feel as the hermit does in his little shanty; cold and bitter. Birds gossip to one another among the tree branches, as if there were nothing else in the world but themselves. The blue jays and the robins, and the gleaming cardinals. The squirrels bicker and chatter running up and down the tree until you are sure they will plunder to their death. No sooner do you anticipate this you find it will never happen for they are too carful in their fleeting manor. Bees hum in the simple pleasure of sitting on the picturesque flowers of violets, whites, and pastels. The fluttering of their wings is as if they are keeping rhythm with the earth. Diving and twirling and carrying the sweet, sweet tasteful nectar that will soon be collected as honey and set on your table.

The rays of sunlight glimmer down through the openings in the highest branches of the oaks, birches, and maples. The warm delicate nature in which it enchants the landscape around you makes you breathless. Lighting up each dew drop fallen in the early morning and night before. If you sit on the giant stone at the mouth of the woods you will feel the radiation of all the joy around you. You can feel the heart of the earth and the motion of the wilderness. Hours you will sit and be entranced, for you will find nothing greater in the world then the woods of our land.

Energized by spirit and passion, the woods stand older than most things around it. Boasting of its variety and pleasure it brings people. Grown in the richest soil in all of the state, no richer soil could ever be found in Michigan. The Pines are strong, thick with the aspen scent. Sap leaking with every pluck of one of their monstrous cones. The Birch’s white papery trunk is smooth to the touch; leaving only the faint trace of its white powder residue. A magnificent beauty compared to the rest, especially in autumn. The Maples are what some come for. Although they are not the maples of Vermont, they do produce the sweetest most alluring syrup in all of Michigan. The painful process is just one pitiful gesture of gratitude we pay every autumn for such succulent syrup.

Out of the woods there are about 20 acres of flat land. This is where our garden, fields, and red wood barns stand, filled with various live stocks. We have the pigs, goats, and sheep all in the medium size barn. The smaller barn, which is shaped more like a tiny house, is the chicken coop. The wire on the north side is rusted, it is almost time to redo the pen and resize it for our chicken population has exceeded the size proper for that coop. The largest and my dearest place is the horse barn. Inside to one side, 10 stalls line the path. Each stall has a feeding bucket and a drinking trough. Delicately golden straw lines each of the stall for the horse’s comfort. The other side and the loft contain hay and other necisary materials needed to keep the horses healthy. There is the grooming corner, the check up shelf: it contains medications we have used and needed through out the years, also there is the birthing stall. In between the medical center and the grooming corner there is a tiny cubby of an office. Here is where we keep trophies, records, and various things that our horses have brought to us blissfully. Also our best saddles and riding gear are stored here. Even though we have such an immaculate array of barns, the land is what ties all of us together.

I am a connoisseur of our tranquil lands, for I was bred and born here. My Papa as my guide, I was taught everything I should need to know to live successful and harmoniously with the land and its inhabitance. My own Father fell ill when I was a child, and my Mama died during birth, so that is how I come to be under the wing of my nurturing Nana and Papa. While Nana helps me with blossoming into a lady, my faithful Papa will snatch me away and take me out on the land. He needs my help with making sure our garden stays healthy and the live stock prosper. He says by teaching me the ways of the land I will be well rounded with an open horizon, ready for triumph of any challenge that I may endure.

Nana never ridicules Papa for presenting me with my own garden; she says it will help me produce beauty almost as comparable as my own. She does however disagree with hard labor I sometimes encounter. She says that a woman, no matter how embracing or beautiful, will never be married if she has tougher hands then the man she wishes to be betrothed to. And since one day I shall be betrothed to the suitor of my Papa’s discretion, I try to heed my Nana’s warning. I wear white linen gloves, only fit for a lady, in the garden. Harder more supporting gloves when I help in the fields or with the livestock.

Tuesday through Friday is my Papa’s time where I may be rescued from the lady chores of the house and am free to roam the prosperous lands of our farm and woods. On the rest of the days I will wake up and with the help of my lady hand I will bathe and clothe in a pretty dress suited for a Countess of France, or so I truly believe. They are all vibrant colors, but I like the blues and soft greens for they match my radiant eyes the best. My lady hand, Marie, will paint my glamorous auburn hair, tightly coil, braid, or secure it in a fashion that will coincide with the out fit of my choice. She may even add jewels, ribbons, or feathers to better exaggerate my striking features.

Most days I will stare into the mirror before reporting to breakfast with Nana. I note how slim I look in these angelic dresses. My curves are well defined and my breasts are starting to shape nicely for a lady of only 15. This particular day as I gaze at my self I remember what my Nana told me the night before at tea, "Jane, tomorrow won’t be any ordinary Saturday, you will have the first of your suitors introduced to you." That is why I am wearing my powder blue dress with ruffles. I had Marie tie my beaus’ tea extra tight to produce a thinner appearance and to illustrate a small facade of cleavage. My hair I have piled on top of my head, painted and powdered so delicately that one would assume that nothing is holding it up, other than the matching ruffled ribbon. A strand of pearls around my neck and the light evidence of make up gave me the finishing touch and Marie gasped in fancy saying softly, "My, my you look like a portrait." And indeed I did.