I was raised on a farm in the rolling green hills of Pennsylvania where the timothy grew waist high in summer and snow drifts blanketed the fields in winter. We moved there when I was seven and afraid of the ghosts I was certain lurked in the old farmhouse shadows. We started off with horses, three of them, and dogs, a Collie and Golden Retriever. Over time we accumulated cows, pigs, sheep, chickens, cats, peacocks, pheasants, potbelly pigs, more horses, a Beagle, an Australian Shepard, a border collie. My best friend was my pony, Moon Dreamer, aptly named for the half moon mark on his forehead.

During hot summers my brother, sister and I baled hay under the baking sun, weeded endless rows of corn and swam with our horses in Cooks Creek. Winters found us digging snow tunnels, and breaking the ice on water troughs and buckets. It was some sort of paradise.

For more reflections, verse and photos of farm life and Pennsylvania, click here.

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