Crisp and clear autumn fell over our backfield. The setting sun was painting the corn with a golden hue while the trees adorned with red, orange, and yellow stood sentinel.My dad and I looked out of the window upon this scene in silence each lost in our own thoughts, yet sharing a sense of peace. I wondered whether Dad was seeing the strawberry vines that once grew there, remembering the times he’d helped with the plowing and the harvesting.
My own thoughts drifted to the walks and picnics I’d had with my sister, friends, and our dogs between plantings. How my mother and I hunted for treasures in a dump in the field behind ours and watching the barn cats play ‘whack a mole’ after the crops had been cut.
Twenty one years later, it’s hard to remember just how long my Dad and I stood there that eve, but that shared piece of time remains forever locked in my memory. For my father passed away early the next morning, October 14, 1991.
Years later, due to an unexpected reaction to a prescribed medication, I almost joined my father in the next life. I had passed out on a sidewalk on a cold winter’s day. The paramedic who came to my aid told my mother and sister I had no pulse, and my blood pressure was dangerously low.
All I knew was that I found myself lying on warm, soft ground, surrounded by sunflowers, looking up at a magnificent blue sky. I was safe, cradled by the legacy of land passed down through three generations of my family. I was in the backfield, our own little piece of heaven.
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