It’s a well known song, coast to coast, dear to those who lived down in the valley.
Down in the valley, the valley so low
That was my home so long, long ago. A river drifting by, sometimes roaring fast and high, sometimes drifting silently by. Memories of sand castles built with wet sand. Walls of sand built to protect them. Frigid water to wade in.
When the river was low and drifting by slowly, canoes floated down the river, carried back home over head.
Daisies love sunshine, pansies love dew.
Climb up the bluff. Hear the wind blow.
The music of the song.
In the spring the bluffs were turning green, covering the mud made by melting snow.
Come summer wild flowers of all colors covered those hills.
Come fall and the bluff was gold, yellow, orange, red and crackling dry leaves.
Come winter all was covered with white snow and silence.
On top of the bluffs were acres and miles of flat land as far as the eye could see, a white house here and there, a red barn, cattle grazing the wheat and hay growing tall. All turned golden and brown. It was harvested and then winter came. Now the top of the bluff is covered with snow, everything quiet and slow.
Climbing up the bluffs, over rocks, mud and weeds. The dog chased rabbits and squirrels, catching not a one. It was only a game for fun.
Holding hands with a younger child. Listening to birds and ducks. Picking wild flowers along the way. What a day.
Angels in heaven know I love you.
Long, long ago such was my home.
We left it too early, too young.
To roam and roam, always remembering, but never going home.