Field with yellow flowers

There is a field in Connecticut that I’ve know since I was a very little girl. My grandparents owned the land. There were other fields but to get to this field one had to cross the road and walk through a large field, through a break in the stone walls, through a woods, another stone wall and there it was – a secret field.

Others knew about it of course, a local farmer rented the fields to graze his cows on and the cows kept a path open through the woods – one had to walk carefully.

I couldn’t go there alone when I was little – couldn’t cross the road to begin with – then it was pretty far from the house, but sometimes in the fall my great uncle would visit. He would take my brothers and me on a hike. On the far side of the field was a great butternut tree and we would gather nuts.

Years later the field became my brother’s property and now he is thinking of retiring and selling. Yesterday, I visited “my” field. The cows are gone but deer still keep the path open. It was a beautiful Connecticut day – the type that makes one forget that it had just rained for three weeks or so straight. There was bright sunshine in the field with dark contrasts of the woods all around. What traffic there was on the country roads didn’t penetrate – just bird song and insect buzzing. Yellow flowers everywhere.

I was hesitant to walk back there for fear of deer tics but it was cool and I wore long sleeves and pants and would and have checked myself from stem to stern – often. My butternut tree was still there and I just stood in the middle and said goodbye.