I live on a dirt road in a green wood where most of my neighbors are called MacArthur - a robust clan steeped in music, books, and extended family. They do the work of woodcraft and gardens, weather and song.
Over the past 20 years, I've watched a handful of the younger ones, babes in arms, become grinning “half-pints” rollicking the hay wagon. They grew up in the way their parents did: school across the field, supper from the yard, songs from the past. Now I watch their little ones learn to wobble across the same land while clutching the finger of a sun-brushed grandmother who is my friend.
Where I grew up, our mothers sent kids outdoors to fend for themselves. We'd skid our bikes on macadam driveways, home by 6 p.m. for grocery store food and TV. My mother did the work of cleaning, cooking, and clothing. My father grew mushrooms from before breakfast to after supper in damp, windowless buildings. We lived separate lives.
I'm not complaining. I had my imagination. It led me to the cottages and quilt-like landscapes in books, like the real ones on MacArthur Road, places where folks sit before open fireplaces, tell stories, and sing songs that also tell stories.