Joann Krzywosinski

Our Farm

Our Farm

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During the fifties, when I was a little girl playing here with my big brother, Tom, we dug in the dirt, building our miniature worlds with sticks, rocks, and little toys. Mom would watch us through the big kitchen window while she fixed supper. We knew the rules: Don’t go past the big gate – and we didn’t, because of the bull. Play nice, don’t fight – but sometimes we did. Supper at 4:00.