One of many recollections from staying the night at Grandpa and Grandma Rogers’s farm as a kid was awakening in the morning to a glorious bird chorus. There seemed to be more birds and more variety in the country. This is still my favorite music.
Their farm was just five minutes outside of the small village in which I grew up in southeastern Ohio. It's where I earned my first dollar "putting up hay" and mucking stalls, where I rode ponies, watched butchering, fed the chickens and pigs, hunted squirrels and rabbits, and milked the cow. I value these experiences at the top of my memories.
This came to me in the predawn this Maryland morning when I awakened to silence, then heard one bird sing one note. Not much but he was first. Soon another then another, a slow symphony.
Both grandparents and a simpler time came to mind.