I asked my grandfather, Poppy, if he ever lived or wanted to live in Philadelphia. He answered immediately. "No, no, no," which sounded more like "newwwh-noh-no" with his chin practically touching his chest and his expression severely shocked I asked. Silly me for asking. Poppy lived on the farm since day one. For a second let's pretend that not everyone knows! The farm, Little Brook Farm, was Poppy's home for 88 years with the exception of some years at college and in the military. Referring to home as the farm is still new to me, because growing up there without pigs chickens goats alpaca cow whatever else makes a farm a farm - I definitely didn't think I lived on a farm. I also loathed the middle school nickname "farm girl." For the sake of simplicity, something I strive for, let's call Poppy's home and my home "the farm." The Farm.
Sooner than later I need to really describe where I grew up in few enough words that the average person could come close to understanding. I hoped the words would flow easily out of my fingers to the keyboard but maybe another time. It is a beautiful day outside and I need to go make a mess in my boyfriend's front yard. Poppy's memorial service was yesterday and it was beautiful.