Behind the barn in late afternoon Uncle Ray lifts my brother to the seat of a harrower abandoned now and rusted to this field of family tilted and monumental plunging its tines into memory of broken earth behind this life of the workhorses they were My father and my Uncle Ray—talking Scattered conversation in hushed tones
...as skyscraping thunderheads slashed through their heights by arrows of fire light the pumpkins between hay bundles of time golden
One of my early memories. I was three. Between my first and second year, memory begins for me-- mostly impressions and strong symbols that seem to float without time. My grandparents were gone, but my Uncle Ray still worked their small farm in Hatfield, Massachusetts, and we would drive up from the city on Sunday afternoons. The house itself, was one of the oldest in New England, with the barn attached by a distinctive enclosure, to allow easy access to the animals in heavy snow, like the house described in Ethan Frome.