Saturday afternoon, Dan headed over to my Grandpa Sayre's farm to chop and split some wood. He took Mary and Emma with him. When Elizabeth woke up from her nap, she was heartbroken, that everyone had gone to Grandpa's without her. So we jumped in the car together and headed over.
We got there, just as the first hints of nightfall were arriving. The sun was leaving it's warming golden glow on every hillside and slipping between the trees.
I'm so glad I thought to throw the camera in the front seat of the car with me because I couldn't even make it up Grandpa's long driveway without having to pull over and take a few photographs.
When we finally pulled into the house, I could hear the chain saw, but couldn't see Dan anywhere. Down over the steep back hill, I found him slowly taking apart a downed Ash tree.
Elizabeth and I started the hike over the hill, knowing (and thankful) that we could get a ride back to the top in the truck. The girls met us from behind a few strides down the hill--they'd been down in the barn, jumping in the corn and checking out the cows.
When Dan finished, and we finally got back up to Grandpa's house, he came out to say goodbye. We stood there for a long time, the girls playing in the back of the truck, Grandpa and Dan talking about property lines, woodburners, farming and politics.
And I stood back, making sure no one toppled out of the truck bed and soaking in the scenery as the light changed from golden yellow to deep blues, to pink, to dark purple.
At one point I stood with the sun setting at one shoulder, the moon reaching into the sky at the other.
It was remarkable.
Grandpa told the girls how, on nights like this, he comes out to those chairs and watches the clouds and waits for the deer to come out of the woods. And how just a few nights ago, he counted 37.
Some light rain finally chased us home--dirty children, a tired, sore and hungry husband.
As I pulled out of the driveway, waving to my girls sitting three across in the truck, all I could think was how blessed I am, we are. To have places like this to come to. To have views like this to cherish. To have people like Grandpa to share stories with and love. To have strong bodies to do work. Warm homes to protect us in bitter cold. And a place like this, and people like you to mark the moment, and share those feelings of fullness and contentment that come at the end of a day like this.
