Come up from the fields father.

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Come up from the fields father.

                                                        Grace Steward

        It happened a year ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was working farming the crops in the fields. It was autumn. The trees were a deep green yellow and red. There was a breeze, cool and sweetening Ohio’s villages. Leaves fluttered in the slight wind. In the orchard the apples grew ripe, along with the grapes on the vines. There was a calm sky after the rain, and the clouds were so bizarre. Even on land it was peaceful, it was beautiful and the farm prospered well.

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        Yet even though all was well on the farm. My daughter, Alice, the youngest of the three yelled, “come up from the fields father, here’s a letter from our Pete!” As I walked up, mixed emotions filled me as to how this letter would read. My wife was outside, and when she was told of the letters arrival, she ran.

My son was away at war, I respected him and I was proud of him. He had volunteered to go to war, twenty-one, and our only son. He enjoyed working with me on the farm and was a good ...

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