Sometimes, I get to feeling nostalgic. I think back to my childhood, which wasn’t perfect but which wasn’t all that bad either. I think about the things I saw at my grandparent’s farm, where they didn’t have an indoor bathroom until I was maybe five or six and if you had to go, you went up the hill to the outhouse. My grandma still used a wringer washer when I was a kid, and she had a clothesline. A real, genuine clothesline, and everything she hung out on it smelled of warmth and sunshine. My grandad’s tractor was an old Allis Chalmers and it had an iron seat and a tin can on the stack.
Grandma had chickens, which she loved, and a big garden and flower beds and she never learned to drive. She brought up six kids in hard, hard times, and she seemed a contented woman. She just got on with it, and if she wasn’t happy with her lot in life, no one really knew it. Grandad had his cattle and hogs, sometimes, and his fields of crops, and he seemed pretty contented, too. They lived simple, straightforward lives, they didn’t make a fuss, and they knew how to do stuff. Admirable folks, my grandparents, and I could wish to be more like them.
All that to say this: if you get to longing for simpler times, if you ever take joy in such homely things as a well-cooked meal or a flower in bloom or the snow melting after a long winter or the smell of clothes on a clothesline, you should read Mrs. Sundberg. It’s a little like coming home after a long absence. You should really, really read this one here. And that’s all I have to say about that, for now.