Our Easter is usually spent at my maternal grandmother's farm. My grandparents are retired now, but in it's day the farm has produced crops, cattle, ducks, chickens, and turkeys. Today, only 3 horses belonging to my mother live there, growing fat on the nine acres around the homestead, and a single cat who has adopted my grandfather. This farm formed a large part of my memorable childhood landscape. I adore this bit of land.
The farm is one of those places that you say that the more it changes, the more it stays the same.
This is particularly true of the upstairs of the farmhouse, a place my grandparents rarely venture these days. With four bedrooms upstairs and no one to sleep in them, the upstairs attic has become a store room.
The walls, painted long ago, peel gently and the dust is allowed to accumulate undistrubed. It is also where we stay when we come to visit. A baby gate has been added to the top of the very narrow flute like steps to stop nighttime wakers from accidently miss stepping (a precaution no one thought my cousins, brother and I needed as children - remind me to tell you of the many times I fell/was pushed down!)
The upstairs may be in a bit of disrepair, but it is quiet and peaceful up there. All the colours have faded into soft pastels. Perfect for a bit of reading.
There are those of us, however, who have no truck with peace, quiet, and sleep. For them, there is always outside.
And, at grandma's house, it is always somebodies birthday.
Hope your weekend was good too.