We arrive to the nest at 11pm to find a dozen hens clucking about today’s news and yesterday’s stories.
From intestines and binding stories to salt cod suppers and liquor store jelly, to doe and stag Christmas moments and early morning ‘hat lamp’ lit strolls.
Tales were told and stories were spun around a kitchen table filled with food, drink, laughter and friends.
Then the morning comes early and I smile when I hear the rain fall. Maybe it’ll rain a little longer and we’ll start our day a little later.
The rains lets up a bit and we rise early, careful not to drag our feet as we make our way to the table for a bowl of oatmeal.
Plans are made and dreams are shared of a place for friends and family to gather round.
I am reminded of the value of hard work – the value that was instilled in me early in my childhood when my family gave their all to provide us with a warm home.
Hard work is my Father coming home from a day at work, only to head up to the field and spilt wood.
Hard work is my Mother caring for her father during a most trying time.
Hard work is my Father making the last piece of wood to be shifted feel like fun for a child by asking, “Is this the one you were looking for?”
Hard work is my Mother staying up late to make lunches and rising early to make breakfast before a long day of clearing land.
Hard work is my Father changing his daughter’s car tires after a long day of back bending chainsaw work.
Hard work is my Mother making breakfast for her kids before they leave and sending them off smelling like a bakery with a reminder of how precious family is.