The wood resonates with children’s voices.
A one room school,
a woman reciting the text
from a McGuffey Reader.
I smell the aroma of corn,
the linen of clothes,
see the light fall from the wall
on children’s faces,
the texture of wax and sweat.
They still live here,
at their desks carving initials,
the boys and girls of Lyme Village.
Mary and I go to a cobbler’s shop.
The old tools are gray,
scratched with use.
It is dark inside with the smell
of leather, simple boots,
a few fancy shoes for the ladies.
The lathe with its steel bristles
is against the wall.
How little the feet were
that wore these crafted coverings.
Ancestors with simple diets,
hard work,
long hours of labor in the fields.
My hands would belong to a child,
without callous,
uninjured by the plow or ax.
They lived together,
the burden of their lives shared equally.
Living with the candles of evening,
the smell of manure, broths,
vats of butter, dough, sauerkraut.
There was a post office,
a great house for the leading family.
Curved arches of red mahogany,
high, everlasting ceilings with plaster relief,
shuttered windows for warmth in winter,
coolness in summer,
and open to the lake coming inland
in spring.
I felt their proud souls around me.
Life was good,
full of purpose,
festivals,
walks in the moonlight
surrounded by fireflies.
Lives of simple joys,
faith,
and laughter.
I felt so close,
so strange,
looking about me.
I was not arrogant with my knowledge
of science, technology.
Entering their shops, school, cabins,
I felt the humility of one
who barely knows
how they lived with a knowledge
of stars, I could not imagine,
or lives lived one day at a time
with courage.