Vermont

If the best of all worlds were possible I would be typing this in a converted barn on a small farm in Vermont.

My farm would be located at the end of a tree lined country road, just beyond a one hundred year old wooden covered bridge.

The land around the farm is primarily occupied by apple groves and surrounded by a low-lying ridge covered by maple groves.

An old ratty scarecrow protects a fallow field of corn and a patch of pumpkins, who lay dreaming Halloween dreams and awaiting the onslaught of town kids desperately searching for the perfect Jack-O-Lantern.

I would often find my senses overwhelmed by the smell of autumn, the ever-changing color of the leaves and the taste of fall in the air.

In the rafters of the old red barn lives a gray owl, he earns his keep hunting mice and whose eerie voice haunts the night sky. A fox family has a den somewhere in the north field and an old tomcat lives beneath the steps.

A woodpile stands at the ready beside the house, ready to provide warmth and comfort through out those long winter nights. When the stars have disappeared and first snowfall is just beyond the horizon.

A cracked and faded wooden swing hangs from the eaves above the front porch, where the chimes loudly singing announcing the coming storm.

In the living room is a hundred year old fireplace built from river stones. If I listen closely I can still hear the river sharing tales of its journey from the mountains on the way to the sea.

The kitchen has a big old Franklin Stove; smoke stained but still serviceable after all of these years. There are lots of nooks and crannies filled with knick-knacks and memorabilia. A wooden counter is located beneath the picture window embracing the view of my favorite brook.

At the top of the stairs are two bedrooms with matching four post beds, covered by homemade quilts and pillows filled with real goose feathers. Just right for supporting my weary head after a long days work.

The furnace has seen a lot of years; its pipes provide a symphony of hisses and sighs. That when I close my eyes carry me off to dreamland almost as well as my mother's lullabies did so many years ago.

In the morning, the rooster's crow announcing the arrival of the sun awakens me. I stretch under the quilt and wiggle my toasty toes. I open the window and find the air to be crisp and the breeze clean. Before I know it I begin to feel human once again.