remembering

where it all began for me...

I'm not usually a documentary kind of girl, but I landed on PBS today, where they were showing "Death of a Dream: Farmhouses in the Heartland." My first reaction was, Good Grief, that's morbid. Is it really dead? But watching it brought back an intense collection of memories.


The documentary discussed what the farmhouse in America stood for, the simpler, slower way of life that is hard to find in today's culture. I smiled when they talked about how every farmhouse used to have an old upright piano that the families and friends would sing around.

My Grandma is one of those pianists you only hear once in a lifetime. She can make a piano cry for mercy. She never "plays notes." She makes a song her own. I used to love sitting on the piano side in church, watching her play with such joy. I loved hearing her play at her house, too.

I remember being a little girl at my Grandma's, listening to the swell of my family's voices fill the big blue living room: my Mother's soprano, my Grandmother's alto, Dad's tenor, and Grandpa's bass. The harmony would fill up my heart so much I thought it would break sometimes.

Isn't it funny how as you grow up, you reach back further and further to remember where you came from and how it made you who you are? Even if it's painful sometimes, it's so important to see the collage of what made you you. Hopefully, I can keep a little "farm" with me -- the stuff that slows down life, makes you want to sing and laugh and enjoy the ones you love more often.