I look out of the back door, and by the light of the single streetlight that my grandfather erected there, I see there is a foot of mist carpeting the lawn at the back of the house. A distant owl calls out from the forest and, in the east, Venus flickers through the pine needles of the old trees that tower over the caravan. The Morning Star heralds the approach of dawn, and if we don’t get to sleep in the next few minutes, there will be no night left for our slumber. Did those old stories really take that long to tell?
By the time we awoke, the summer sun had burned away the mist, and Venus, although we could not see her, hung directly over our heads. The big, old gate creaked as the milkman delivered our daily pint, and my grandmother lifted the big, old kettle from the hob as the steam from the boiling water inside made its whistle sing. This was a day when we didn’t have to do anything, but we did what we did because we chose to. Later, away from the oasis that my grandfather built, I found, as did my dear wife, that everything we did was compelled by other people whose business it was to order our lives.
As my years advance, I am trying to resist that domination. See, I have written this, and no one told me to.