A dark igloo

… about the death of an old family friend. One of my earliest memories is being on their farm, next to where my parents used to live, playing in the broken down cars (which I’m sure are now worth a small fortune as these things always go), seeing cows being born and cows being milked, running away from geese and chasing after chickens, driving a tractor at eight years old, my one and only ride on a horse. Seeing a shotgun expel its smokey cartridges.

Peering at a injured fox through a cage that one of her boys had nursed back to near health and release. Seeing a wild animal up close and personal for the first time was quite something. When the wild stares you back in the eye, it’s a wondrous thing.

Sleeping in a barn on hay. Disappearing for a whole day, some sandwiches in a bag and a mind for mischief and adventure.

I grew up in the city, I’ve always lived in one and I like it. But Margaret Pearce and her family showed me there was somewhere else. Something more natural, something more core to your being, something perhaps better, cleaner and more healthy.

Rest in Peace Dear Dear Lady

Al

PS: And fuck me, did they have a feast every Sunday. Food like you would. not. believe.

PPS: That’s the one and only time I’ll ever quote the Beatles.