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The farm stories are very loosely based on my growing up on a farm in rural Connecticut in the 50′s.  I like to think of them as being more truthful than factual—but who can really tell as time has a way of altering what we remember—and remembering what we alter.  While they may seem written for kids, they are hopefully relevant to the kid in us all.

NOT A GOOD IDEA!

twinponds-11412-13Living just southeast of Lake Ontario, in a little town called Cato, New York, Jill and I, were used to the lake effect snows that could blast into town and dump 48 inches of snow in a few hours.  These storms were an adrenaline producing adventure as valid as sport climbing or parapenting.    While “getting used to them” is perhaps a bit preposterous, we did treat them with the respect, excitement and anticipation they deserved.

Mummies in the Haymow

It was 90 degrees along with 90% humidity—it might as well have been raining.

It was August.

Playing in the Hay

Henry and his cousin were drenched in sweat from the stifling heat and their hard work in the haymow. Hay chaff stuck to their sweaty skin like salty sand at the beach—stinging like nettles.  Sweat whipped off Henry’s nose and hair as he tossed the bales of hay.

By Charles Buell

Light in the Woods (A children’s story for adult children)

Springtime

Henry loved the woods.  It was springtime—-and everything was waking up—even Henry.

His journeys to the woods were a constant source of amusement, discovery and refuge.

Connecticut mill pond

Connecticut mill pond

Henry had not always lived in the country and the unfortunate circumstances that resulted in his coming to live in the country likely had a lot to do with his interest in the woods—at least initially.  It was a place where, by its very nature, he could momentarily forget that he was not where he wanted to be.  There was no way for him to comprehend the forces that seemed to be directing his life.  The challenge and thrill of learning what the woods had to offer was more than a distraction—-it was a necessity. It was the sort of sustenance by which we all end up dancing to the beat of a different drummer—-if we are lucky.  It was a way for him to exert some control and direction in his life.  Not just a testament of where he had to be—but now where he wanted to be.