Judith Sutherland

It is not often that we can put ourselves in the place of another living form, to consider its perspective fully.

Each member of our family knew to live by the motto “conserve and preserve,” and I figured it was a rule in every household.

Climb to the highest point of the barn’s upper hay mow, swing out on the old rope left over from olden days in which a pulley system was used to move loose hay around. Swing as steady and strong as possible and then let go and drop down into the shelled corn gravity wagon on the barn floor below.

Judith Sutherland shares some thoughts on raccoon hunting season.

“Set your watch. Time is not yours, but oh this life, it is. And it’s down to you, how you choose to live. This is the gift my dying will give.”

“October inherits summer’s hand-me-downs: the last of the ironweed, its purple silken tatters turning brown and tiny starry white asters tumbling untidily on the ground like children rolling with laughter … Queen Anne’s lace is now an heirloom, a faded wedding veil, and the mullein’s tall stalk holds a few late, yellow flowers like drops melted and run down the side of a candle.”

While reading through a collection of poetry, selected and introduced by Garrison Keillor, titled, “Good Poems for Hard Times,” I ran across a writing by Erica Funkhouser that could have been written by one of us.

“The barn is a community of rugged individualists, everybody mildly suspicious of everybody else, including me. Friendships sometimes develop, as between a goat and a horse, but there is no sense of true community or cooperation. Heaven forfend! Joy of life, yes. Tolerance of other cultures, yes. Community, no.”

There is no place more somber than a very old, remote country cemetery on a gray November day.

Our rural community is celebrating an incredible last-second win in regional football post-season play.