Farmer Boy

Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder

There is something oddly satisfying about sitting at my friend's loom weaving while she reads Farmer Boy to her son. I have always loved the Laura Ingalls books, but I have never heard them read aloud. It seems right that I weave yarn she spun while she explains to her son about how people made clothes back then and couldn't just go to the store and buy new clothes if their shirts were ripped.

I used to live near the Wilder Homestead in Malone, New York. I always meant to visit, but I never made it. I always assumed there would be more time. Ah well, maybe one day I'll go to Minnesota to visit the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum in Little House, Minnesota instead. Minnesota is not in my near future, though.

I think I should start seeing and doing things I want instead of waiting for some unknown future date. It's not good to assume that something will remain the same or good. Whole lives can change in seconds or minutes, and then when we do, we're left wondering why we didn't do or say or enjoy that thing that we were thinking about. I don't want to have so many of those "why didn't I" and "what if I'd" moments.

In the meantime, I'll listen to my friend read this book and other books to her son while I sit at the loom and weave or sit at the sofa with my embroidery or whatever it is that I choose to do. Maybe one day I'll even finish the embroidery project I started over a year ago.