Spring snowballs.

I bought and planted this little snowball bush in our backyard a few years ago, for old times’ sake. We had one outside the farmhouse door when I was a child- by the verandah steps on that side of the house. I always feel like ‘home’ in it’s most original sense, is the farm…

While my paternal Grandpa was away fighting in WW2 his wife bought a pretty little farm on the Nicomekl River, on Coast Meridian Road. Nestled between Cloverdale (a small farming town) and White Rock (a beach/ border town) it prospered as a thriving dairy farm in Grandpa Jack’s able hands.

We lived in a second house on the same farm when I was a very young child, then eventually in the original white and red farmhouse after my grandparents couldn’t live there anymore. I am forever grateful for the wealth of happy memories I am blessed with from those sweet years.

For this reason I have always been touched to the heart by Dylan Thomas’ stirring poem, Fern Hill…

I love this so much I wish I had written it, but of course only Dylan Thomas could have done it.

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