Snapshot

In my backyard, there are two sugar maple trees, planted when my sister Sarah was only a year old (nearly thirty-six years ago). A while back, my husband strung a clothesline between those two trees, at my request. As soon as warm weather hits each spring, I stop cooking clothes in my dryer, and hang them outside to dry instead. I adore the smell and feel of line-dried clothes.

This morning, my mom looked out the kitchen window, and said, "Junebug, the Union Army is invading again." That's her rather whimsical way of reminding me that I had jeans hanging on the line, and don't forget to bring them in. In the pre-dawn light, if there's a bit of mist fogging the air, thirty pairs of jeans do look a bit like a ghost regiment, standing ready in my back yard.

I'm a busy girl, though; there are posts to write, lessons to teach, work to do. It was nearly noon before I got outside to collect those jeans. When I got out there, it was a bit overcast, and the wind was blowing warm. Storm's a comin' probably late this afternoon; I could smell the moisture in the air. I could hear barn swallows under the bridge, making their nests and crying out their distinctive song. My grass needs cutting; there's so many violets sprouting up that I can't tell if the back yard is green or deep purple.

I start pulling jeans off the line, draping them on my shoulder (laundry baskets are for wimps!). I look out beyond the clothesline: one field lies fallow, with the sharp yellow-green of alfalfa. Beyond that is the back field; it's fenced in, and two horses -- Snowflake and Abigail -- are lazily grazing. Beyond that? Dark green hills, covered in pine trees and tulip poplar.

The wind comes up again, catches in my dress, blowing on my face, my hair, my arms. It is strong, nearly blowing away a pair of little girl shorts as I take them off the line. I close my eyes a moment, enjoy the warmth. Then I open them again, and look around at land that my family has nurtured, loved and hated, preserved, since 1811. It is beautiful. It is Paradise. It is home.

At that moment, I would not trade my life for all the money you could dream of.