Mitch LittlefieldSince this is my initial post on this blog, I'm “planting the seeds” in this ongoing garden of musing and stories from a man who was fortunate enough to be born into a large loving family who owned and operated three farms in rural Maine when I was growing up. I figure I ought to tell a story worth reading to anyone who honors me by reading it.

So, in this first installment, I will tell you the following story as I feel it gives the reader a good sample of my “voice.” In subsequent submissions, I will tell stories of this life I cherished as a farm boy and the people who made it a life that I will continue to honor with the same dry witty humor that was so prevalent from my elders. I hope you enjoy:

It was the summer of 1969. In fact it was the first day after school ended for the year. I was blissful in my sleep that morning, dreaming of all the adventures this 13-year-old was going to have on the farm over the summer, when this distant voice intruded through the depth of my slumber, and popped the dream bubble in my head.

“Time to get up, Mitch, I am heading over to The Other Farm to get some mushrooms, five minutes!”

My grandfather, hollering from the foot of the stairs, had plans that didn't include me lazing in bed all day. I pried my eyes open and bleary-eyed my watch.

4:30 a.m.

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