By Joel Seppala
A Special Time and Place
By Joel Seppala
From thousands of miles away and beyond the tropical blue horizon she calls me still
Those Amber Waves of Grain
With family farms and gravel roads and reflections of all the other clichés that fill country radio
She is not the land of my ancestors; she is not the old country
But she is my home
With porches and sunsets, turkey and deer
It is fall when she most pulls at my heartstrings. When piled leaves crackle and burn in small fires on the corners of yards in every tiny town, signifying summer’s end.
“Best to get the leaves in before snow buries them. ‘Could be any day now.”
Old men gathered around convenience store counters talk about the weather or the price of corn or politics.
Ladies at the church plan fall festivities while just starting to whisper about Christmas.
Dads begin to put up bikes in the shed and Moms shop for deals on jackets (of course there aren’t any to be found because jackets go on sale in April)
Gold and black hunting dogs stretch their necks as they watch hundreds then thousands of geese pass by overhead.
A patchwork of memories from a special time and place.
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