Long Ago

  More Letters From Paradise
              Long Ago
The old weathered barn was even larger than he remembered. Inside the sunlight struggled through the dusty fly-spotted windows hung with spider webs. The white washed walls were peeling, the rows of rusting stanchions had waited for years for cows that never came. The room smelled of dusty hay and the absent cows.
This was once the heart of a flourishing dairy. Great-Aunt Bertha, with her iron gray hair pulled back into a bun and sporting chin whiskers, was in charge. Aided by her daughter Rachael, they produced great wheels of pale yellow cheese. The shelves of the pantry in the old house were filled with cheese. And in one bedroom there were straight ladder back chairs, supporting planks covered with cheese.
Lunch was served at a round table in the kitchen, in the center of which was a silver-plated caster holding salt, pepper, and several condiments. The meal itself was often cheese sandwiches, made with slabs of homemade bread, and glasses of cold raw milk. All of this he remembered, as well as the sound of the long metal rod banging the side of the milk cans cooling in the tank of  water, which never left his head as he stepped outside and quietly closed the door.
           Aloha
           Grant