Morning Time

…MORNING TIME Every morning at four, I hear the slamming of the woodshed door. The rattle of the poker and the smell of wood smoke, wafting through the air. It rolls its way up the stair to where I am sleeping there. The smell of homemade bread, toasting on the large black kitchen stove, With coffee perking. There’s honey and home churned butter, oatmeal hot, and brown sugar sweet. Milk is ready to be strained and put in large steel milk pails. Auntie’s in her Kitchen but has Uncle George to meet. Now done with my breakfast and out the door, I run. Up in the battered rusty truck, truck I jump, and so does good, old Shep. It’s off to Grandfather’s farm we roll. The sun is coming up on Brett Road, and smiles across the family farmland. I see my Grandpa Billy and Great Grandpa Rufus comes with a limp Outa’ the chicken coop, with brown eggs in a basket, as the cat’s wrap around his feet. He comes up to greet with a large toothless grin and great bear hands he grabs and hugs me, His little JoAnne.