your memory is such a fascinating place. who, or what, decides what stays and what not? and how come you never know which sound or which smell will trigger which memory?
spent the afternoon washing, and then painting, some pieces of furniture. i figured that since the new pipes are in place (yay!), the light in the tunnel isn’t just a train coming to run you over. i can finally start planning in detail how to furniture. after posting detailed pictures on the deterioration, i won’t be posting anything on the progress – only the end result. stay tuned.
anwyay. what was i saying.. oh yes. was busy painting when i heard a distinct sound that immediately took me back at least twenty years; it was the sound of a harvester starting it’s work on the big field. i had to remind myself it wasn’t dad, but a while later, i had to see it for myself. after washing the paintbrush, i took my camera and headed out to the field. i walked the paths i know by heart, jumped a few ditches, and climbed up a rock, where i sat down in the sun. almost felt like i was on the look out for wild animals, i could hear my dad telling me to be absolutely still. i took a few pics, smiling at the fact that i was completely invisible. when the harvester had passed reasonably close by, i felt the smell of fresh straw twirling in the air. and that’s when i really had to stop myself, not to run down the hill and ask to ride along, or at least have a coffee and a sausage sandwich with too much butter. i think the only thing really stopping me was the fact the harvester was the wrong colour. it used to be red. and before that, yellow, if my memory serves me well…
i sat there for almost an hour. enjoying the sun, the smell, the sound. something i read the other day came to mind; “When we forget who we are, where we’re going becomes unclear. When we remember, the next step appears.” although i could never stand being a farmer, and although i do not stand winters in this godforsaken country, no matter what the future brings, this will always be my home.