The dirt drive leads as it always has to The Meetinghouse. Many years ago the townsfolk took the building and swiveled it using man power and teams of oxen. While it has been turned, the building still stands on the top of the hill near the graveyard. It still stands on its footprint, but it now gazes in a new direction.
Many people use the phrase “Postcard Village”. Every Fall people come from far and wide to take wide sweeping pictures of meetinghouse in Greenfield. These pictures are sold and eventually make their way to postcards, and calendars. I have been far from home, and looked at a calendar rack, and seen the old building staring back at me. While the building has always been well know, I have always seen it in a more intimate manner, because for me, its home. I know the smell of the old wood, and the stairs that creak. The way the old white clapboards feel. Tonight three lanterns are lit up, as the sun sets lazily behind it.
It was a quiet little moment at the end of the night. We stood up against the old picket fence that led to the graveyard. We gazed out, quietly talking. Even though it was a brief moment, it was special. As I looked out over towards the West, I noticed how the last rays of the sun illuminated the back of the trees. You could see how their limbs were all unique. Some were straight and narrow, shooting straight up towards the sky. Yet there were others, that were thicker, and went this way and that creating a spindly mosaic.
It is a quiet town where nothing really happens. Where we have a long history, but time here goes slowly. Nothing is wrong with this, in reality it is better. Being here gives you time to contemplate our silly world, and our place in it.