It was the year nineteen and forty
The old house sat atop a low mound
Lovingly referred to as the hill
Although it was not high at all
The term hill, a true stretch of imagination

The building’s sides were rough-cut lumber
And windows were gaping black holes
Complimented with emptied flour sacks
Sewn together; magically becoming panes
Slightly dissuading onslaughts of weather

An outhouse tilted precariously out of plumb
Sitting a scant fifty meter walk from the house
Along a deeply rutted dirt pathway
A quick and unpleasant journey in winter
Yet life, as we knew it then, was good

Firewood, laid in during the summer months
Consisted of twenty cords of hot-burning fir
Trees felled and split to proper length by hand
Stacked, and protected against deep winter snows
The battered, wood stove’s firebox always filled

The old cook stove’s fire’s burned incessantly
It’s oven miraculously giving life to baked items
The delightful aromas of yeast breads and pies
Permeating the small structure we named home
And truly it was all that a home ought to be

Love resided within those breezy walls
Alongside discipline and a faith in the Almighty
Tears always gave way to laughter there
And I suppose that upon my death bed
I shall think fondly of that old house, on the hill