pamelagmusings

Musings

Pam's Musings

My writing nook at my house in Laramie, WY.

My writing nook at my house in Laramie, WY.

A long time ago or once upon a time, stifled by the desire to get everything right on paper, rendered immobile by my inner and nasty critic, I was encouraged to read Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott.  I have read it numerous times and often wish I could commit it to memory.  Ah, the perfection that comes from the memorized verse.  Lamott strikes out at the need and desire for perfection.  Instead, she pushes me to embrace the messiness of writing, to muse.  She tells me to let go and not worry about destination or the big picture.  She set before me the creed by which my musings are written, by which my inner wild woman craves to live:  “Don’t look at your feet to see if you are doing it right.  Just dance.”  When I muse, and this is a necessary part of my writing process, I don’t look.  I just write.  I hope you enjoy these musings.  I hope you muse as well.  

The Farm House, September & October, 2026

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The two-story farmhouse stood tall and stately in a wide field of green, just off a country road. Poole Road, to be exact. With white shingled siding and tall windows with slatted green shutters, the structure was plain but impressive.

It might have been painted yesterday, for as we drove up the long asphalt drive, I spied not a hint of inattention or need for repair. Impeccably cared for, I thought. Care that was mirrored in the mowed lawn, the pruned trees, the smaller well-kept buildings off to the right, and the great barn before us.

To our left, a single old pony stood in a clean, sturdy paddock. At our approach, she took a few steps and cradled her head in curiosity over the top rail. This was Bonnie, who would provide testimony to longevity via loving attention. She would live to be about forty years old. 

To our right, a long brick walk stretched from the driveway to the house’s side porch. Like the house itself, the walk offered a welcome devoid of any desire to flaunt or impress. It merely hinted, in its simple and practical construction, attention to orderliness by the owners, Harold and Carol Poole, my husband’s brother-in-law and older sister. Harold had inherited the farm, built about 1900, from his parents.  

“This is it,” my husband said, turning off the car’s engine and nearly whispering in the quiet and calm of the country setting. We sat for a moment, until our two older sons demanded to be released to the largest and most beautiful playground they would ever know. With their baby brother in tow, they scrambled to the cobblestone walk and wasted no time immersing themselves in the world of pretend offered by this farm setting. 

At this and every visit hereafter, Carol and Harold emerged from the house’s side door, the kitchen door. Harold headed down the walk, ready to discuss vehicle mileage with my husband, and Carol waved from the small patio partially surrounded by her beautiful flower gardens. Piling our suitcases into the kitchen, I would always notice, over the many years that I grew to love this family as my own, that the large kitchen table was forever busy: with books bookmarked to certain chapters, newspapers, stacks of business material and letters, parts of a near-completed project, a bit of folded laundry, a leash, and treats for the farm cats and other animal adoptees smart enough to wander to the Poole’s farm. Greens from the garden, a bowl of fresh-picked berries, and the fixings for supper sat on the counter by the sink. The kitchen was the beating heart of the farmhouse on Poole Road.

I was not naïve enough to believe that the harmony over the farm was constant, but our visits were never filled with anything but love calm. Harold wiped dust from old hand-made toys for our sons. He teased and told bits of stories that fascinated the boys. Carol led us to the gardens, showing the boys how vegetables really grew. As we walked in the forested area behind the house, she helped us spy tiny flowers and colorful birds. She kept me up to date on her Children’s Day Care business and paid careful attention to my concerns, while Harold and my husband tackled the structural challenges posed by the aging house.

Our sons were invited into the wonderful world that only a farm can offer. At night, after a long day of play in the wilds of the cornfield, after the lightning bugs’ display diminished, the boys requested that Aunt Carol sing them a song and tuck them into their beds in the big upstairs rooms. They slept well in the country silence and openness.

When we moved west, we depended on memories to soothe us. The boys’ delight in the mysterious circular stairs behind the kitchen wall. Discovering that Bonnie ate a few of their plastic soldiers. Carol singing “I see the Moon” to our firstborn son. Harold adopting our sort-of Labrador, Michael, for safekeeping—just an old mutt, but he and Harold spent summer nights eating ice cream on the side porch. When Harold showed me Michael’s grave, the sometimes crusty farmer could only turn from me and point to it. Our sons, well into their adulthood, would know Carol and Harold’s love, wisdom, and guidance. They would, we thought, always be there.

Yet Harold died in 2023 and Carol died in late August of 2026.

It is quiet in the old, empty farmhouse but for our near-whispering voices and the rustle of the leaves of the old trees and bushes. The stable has known no horse for a long time. The deer in the meadows, with their fawns, move in gentle silence. The tall windows still draped with sheer curtains show no glow of the television screen or an upstairs light turned on for a welcomed visitor. Illumination is up to the lady bugs. No cats are to be called in for the night, but for Carol’s cat Molly, who may soon venture with the beloved granddaughter to North Carolina. Carol and Harold’s two daughters, mirrors of their parents’ goodness, will decide the house’s next chapter, but we are all assured that the book will never close on our memories. We will keep tall and stately the farmhouse on Poole Road.