Nightime.
The nights are quiet here. Except they're not.
I realized this last night. Mr. Lancaster was away, and friends came by Lancaster Land for some wine. The next time I talk about friends visiting Lancaster Land, I won't have to add that wine was involved, because it always is. I recently said to someone, "I'm good at two things. Pouring wine and starting fires." My sister was nearby, and she quickly responded. "No, but she really is." I was proud. I really like both of those things.
I realized this last night. Mr. Lancaster was away, and friends came by Lancaster Land for some wine. The next time I talk about friends visiting Lancaster Land, I won't have to add that wine was involved, because it always is. I recently said to someone, "I'm good at two things. Pouring wine and starting fires." My sister was nearby, and she quickly responded. "No, but she really is." I was proud. I really like both of those things.
Anyway, last night...
We had grand plans of guitars and heavy pours around the usual Lancaster Land bonfire...and yes, that's a girls-only kind of thing we do. Unfortunately the liquid sunshine took precedent, and we stayed inside talking of everything and nothing at the same time.
One of my friends, who has seen more of the world than any of us could fathom, stood in the downward droplets on the deck for a moment and looked into the sky. "It's so quiet here." she said. I nodded. Most nights are this kind of quiet at Lancaster Land. We don't hear horns, and there are no streetlights. There are no noisy neighbors and you can see the stars. You can really see the stars. You can almost reach into the sky and touch them. I smiled as she said this, but inside, I thought about how wrong she was.
It's not quiet here. But it's the best kind of loud.
Crickets.
Cows.
Wind through fir trees, alive and howling.
And the rain. Oh, the rain. On our metal roof. The rain.
That's nighttime. Daytime is lawnmowers and tractors and the ping ping ping ping of the two-stroke motorcycle. It's hammers pounding nails. It's the thud of a shovel hitting the dirt and the indescribable sound the dirt makes as it's thrown across the field into a pile. Over and over. The pile will be built for jumps. Of any kind. It's music, lots of music. It's life.
And the laughter. The laughter is what Lancaster Land is all about. It's why we made this place and why we continue to make this place.
When you visit, I hope you listen. I want to know what you hear.
We had grand plans of guitars and heavy pours around the usual Lancaster Land bonfire...and yes, that's a girls-only kind of thing we do. Unfortunately the liquid sunshine took precedent, and we stayed inside talking of everything and nothing at the same time.
One of my friends, who has seen more of the world than any of us could fathom, stood in the downward droplets on the deck for a moment and looked into the sky. "It's so quiet here." she said. I nodded. Most nights are this kind of quiet at Lancaster Land. We don't hear horns, and there are no streetlights. There are no noisy neighbors and you can see the stars. You can really see the stars. You can almost reach into the sky and touch them. I smiled as she said this, but inside, I thought about how wrong she was.
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| The road is long, but worth every mile. |
It's not quiet here. But it's the best kind of loud.
Crickets.
Cows.
Wind through fir trees, alive and howling.
And the rain. Oh, the rain. On our metal roof. The rain.
That's nighttime. Daytime is lawnmowers and tractors and the ping ping ping ping of the two-stroke motorcycle. It's hammers pounding nails. It's the thud of a shovel hitting the dirt and the indescribable sound the dirt makes as it's thrown across the field into a pile. Over and over. The pile will be built for jumps. Of any kind. It's music, lots of music. It's life.
And the laughter. The laughter is what Lancaster Land is all about. It's why we made this place and why we continue to make this place.
When you visit, I hope you listen. I want to know what you hear.