I stand alone in the yard of the farm I’ve started calling Manderley and look and listen. The morning is foggy; low cloud blankets the prairie like a soft cotton quilt. The landscape looks cold because of the fog but it isn’t really. I find it pleasant standing here.
I look to the west at some of the outbuildings. They still stand strong after many years of service to the family that originally homesteaded this land, joined now by a silver quonset and a trio of silver granaries.
I turn toward the east and see the house; Gerry is inside looking around in the nooks and crannies at pipes and structural details that have little interest to me. No one lives there now but it has not been completely cleaned out yet. Earlier I saw little sign on the wall near the entry way that said something about fun happening at Grandma’s house.
As I walk back toward the house I find myself breathing deeply as I take in the crisp morning air. It feeds a part of me that has been starving for something lately.
Behind the house is the area which is reserved for garden. A homemade greenhouse stands nearby just waiting for a fresh batch of seedlings to fill it’s shelves. An old outhouse, no longer used, adds character to the space.
As I hear the voice of the land whisper to me I realize that there is no other sound. There is no other sound. It is still and absolutely silent this morning, and it is that silence that allows me to hear the voice of the land.