As twilight slips in and throws long shadows across the lawn, I’m reminded of how days ended a long time ago when I was a child. At the same time each evening, the cows would amble across the pasture toward the barn. It was milking time. Mom would have supper on the stove and Dad would bring the foaming buckets of warm milk to the house before we ate.
Now, of course, times have changed. It seems to me they’ve changed overnight, but, of course, it has been gradual, over the years. The sound of cowbells, the swish of streams of warm milk shooting into foaming buckets were gone a long time ago. But, sometimes when the sun slides just above the trees in the west, casting long shadows across the grass, and the birds begin their nightly chat in the honeysuckle vines, I’m reminded of another time, and the way things were. It’s nice to remember.
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