The happiest sound in the world wasn’t soft. It was the slam of a wooden screen door—no stopper, no hesitation—just my super sweet niece Margaret, yelling “Aunt Bea!” and love arriving unfiltered.
I moved to a farm next door when my sister did, onto lush, hilly farmland that felt like a dream. My dad had already passed, and I’d taken my mom in. My own kids weren’t born yet. I was newly married, just 20 something years old.
That screen door slammed constantly, announcing their arrival, their hunger, their joy, their chaos. It was the safe place.
Chuck and I worked the farm together—boots in the mud, laughter in the rows, chickens clucking loudly in rhythm with the day. Friends came every weekend to spend nights on the farm and nightly rock in chairs on the porch, talking through the night and gazing at the night sky. The tractor had a cough we could recognize from a mile away.
My mom made coffee every morning. Before my babas died, he read the newspaper to her out loud. That was their sound—the quiet duet of devotion.
I understand the farm is fallow now. The greenhouses are gone. Overdeveloped. The hills still remember, but the rhythm has changed.
Farms don’t hum. They declare. They slam, squawk, rattle, and sing. And if you listen closely, they tell you who you were—before the world got loud and bizarre.
-Despina 11-18-25 (hey it’s my birthday..I almost forgot LOL)
