Hello, friend, and happy Friday. You made it! I hope you have some fun plans for this weekend. Here, it is going to be gorgeous weather, so I plan to get out and power wash my fence. I also need to dig up some pesky dandelions that think they are part of my garden. I think there might be an estate sale too that Mr. Handsome and I could go to. Today, my friend Angie and I are going to some Mennonite stores and antiquing. Angie was my youth sponsor when I was a senior in high school, and we have been friends ever since. She definitely is a blessing to me.

Talking about blessings. I have shared with you about the neighborhood where I grew up. I also mentioned some of the neighbors who lived on that street. Today I am going to share about Mrs. Farmer. Mrs. Farmer was a nice lady who let the neighborhood kids run through her yard while playing tag. She would sit in her back room and watch us play, often with a smile on her face, seemingly enjoying the laughter and carefree joy that filled the air. We would wave, and she would wave back, her warm gestures making us feel welcomed and cherished. I wonder now if we bothered her or if she was glad we were there to put a little joy in her life, as sometimes adults cherish the innocent energy children bring into their world. She had a tall fence at the back of her property, a barrier that sparked our curiosity and imagination. My sister and I would peek over it to see the lady on the other side gardening. I’m not proud of it now; we must have seemed like little mischievous sprites. My sister and I would say “Yohoo” to the lady just to see her reaction, getting a thrill from the adventure of it all. That lady didn’t like kids, and she definitely didn’t like us peeking over the fence. We would do this many times. The lady would get in her big Lincoln and drive around to our street to see if she could find us, the sound of her car signaling the end of our fun. She never did. I wonder now if Mrs. Farmer knew we did this, if she thought we were rotten children, or if she got a chuckle out of us. Anyway, Mrs. Farmer’s house was pretty, and her yard was pretty too. I didn’t go in that house until after she moved away. My mom’s cousin and her husband moved back from Chicago and bought Mrs. Farmer’s house, offering a new chapter in its story. That house was full of character. Upstairs, it had original fixtures and flooring in the bathroom that would make anyone gush these days. It had a long bedroom that faced the street, perfectly designed for multiple twin beds. I love those kinds of rooms. It had a pretty sitting room with a fireplace. All the woodwork was painted white, and the carpet was plush, inviting anyone to sink into its softness. Such a pretty house, full of stories waiting to be told. I wonder if those walls could talk, what would they say? Would they tell me who built the house? What children were raised there? How long had Mrs. Farmer lived there? Each detail, from the creaks of the floorboards to the gentle drafts of the windows, surely held the echoes of laughter, tears, and memories that shaped its existence.

As always I’m glad you’re here.

Best,

Amy