Archives for posts with tag: sports

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This painting has little to do with what I’m about to write it is simply one of my favorites

The house is the same as many would imagine a Midwest farm house to be, with it’s wrap around porch, shutters and standard off white paint. A wooden screen door gently taps frame in rhythm with the breeze. The two stories give a deceiving appearance that the structure may contain more than two bedrooms but in fact it does not. Roof covered in gray shingles, sloped to a pitch designed with the idea of discouraging snow from accumulating, gaining weight and collapsing inward, protects the inside from nature. Traditional style curtains can clearly be seen through windows on both floors, indicating the proprietors understanding of roots and willingness to stay with what works.

Infront of the house a large split pasture is seperated from gravel drive and small front yard by white wooden fence. The fence has a stoutness suggesting it is not merely a cosmetic structure but one of function as well. Grass in the yard is clipped much closer to ground than that of the pastures. Amongst this manicured lawn is a lone tree, the sort that stands tall and twisted informing anyone who looks upon it, that it has stood through many seasons and generations in this very spot. A rope plank swing hangs from one of the larger branches, the platforms worn wooden bench, displays years of fun and joy. Off behind the house in a somewhat typical fashion is a red barn, trimmed in the same white as the place of residence. Connected off the right hand side is another pasture, where seven horses can be seen grazing. The enclosing allows animals to freely enter their stalls for water or rest from weather at will. On closer examination large sliding doors can be seen, they can be closed at night containing the beautiful horses safely in thier respective stalls.

Upon entering the home the scent of linseed oil, varnish, and various other smells of oil painting fills the air. These aromas are often accompanied by gentle music softly playing in the background or the clear melody of someone playing live accusticly. Wooden floor, showing care taken to preserve, yet the undeniable pattern that years of those who live here coming and going, leads to a staircase. From staircases bottom both kitchen and family room can be viewed depending on which direction one is looking. An open family room with sofa, end tables holding matching lamps, two chairs and a long wooden record player stereo are the main furnishings, besides a desk in one corner. The desk has feathers, furs, a vise and other items used for the tying of flies, intended to at some later date entice a trout to rise. Beside it is an easel with a painting in progress tenderly perched upon the stained wood, which clearly shows its use. A television is the only furnishing which seems out of place hanging on the far wall in a position guaranteeing that in order to be viewed the chairs must be repositioned. Of course on nights when hockey is being played they are infact turned to face the lone modern device in the room.

Breathing deeply I take in all that is the home of my childhood and all besides nine months of my years on this Earth. Tomorrow evening I will walk from what is now Brooke’s bedroom down these stairs and out the door. Mom will hug me tightly on the porch, we all spend so much time on. She will hand me some extra cash whispering to not tell my father. Brooke will be waiting in the back seat when I climb into the front one next to Dad. I will turn to talk to Brooke as we pull away, in order to see the place I call home and mostly to watch Mom standing on the wooden porch. In a few hours drive time my things will for the second time be carried into a dorm room by my father. He will hand me some cash instructing me not to tell Mom. Brooke and I will hug and kiss goodbye, without words spoken between us. As Dad and Brookelyn get into vehicle I will say mostly to keep myself from crying, “I’ll be home for Thanksgiving!”

-Brooke’s Sister

I felt compelled to add that I am excited about going back to school! I’m also grateful to be going back early, because my early return means I have kept my athletics scholarship and will be returning for the sport, long before classes begin. Yet, it’s all quite bittersweet.

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Lovingly my father insisted both the Bayer girls learn the art of fly-fishing. With certainty a memory of Brooke barely coordinated enough to move a rod back in forth in a strait motion, standing in our yard as father clapped out the rhythm that would ensure a looping cast, is engraved in my mind. I don’t recall learning to handle a fly-rod at such a young age, but doubtlessly remember the efforts of my sister. Long after my own arm tired or my interest faded to other activities, Brookelyn would still be standing in spring dusk working the hookless line in our front yard.

Our mother questioned dad only once about if in fact he possibly was pushing the youngest daughter too hard, or if the length of these casting sessions bordered on the level of cruelty. The inquisition ended with Brooke in tears struggling to sign and scribble a legible, “please let’s me play fishing.” At this point it was apparent to all three of us that if anything the smallest member of our family was the one lengthening the fly-fishing lessons. This was also the first sign of my sister’s slightly unhealthy obsession for perfection at any activity which she undertakes.

Several years have passed since Brooke and I were even close on the water in ability to handle rod and line. As the art insists this also sets her several leagues above me in enticing, hooking and landing fish. It also must be written that though I attend most fishing expeditions with Brookelyn and father, I go more to be with them than to work line or catch anything. Truth be told I know a day may come when I step away from my fly-rod and never pick it up again. Brooke on the other hand, when not wondering local water ways alone or with anyone willing to venture with her, often spends her time planning an adventure to come, or tying flies that she has deemed for season and certain species of fish. Not unlike the work she does on paper with pencil, pen or pastels, Brooke is an artist with her fly-rod and the tying of furs, feathers and string on a hook. As is the case with most talented artist her passion and love shows in the beautiful handcrafted flies and even more so in the grace of her cast, be it a standard, roll or shadow cast.

After spending this morning on the water with Brooke, I’m simply amazed at who she is becoming. At thirteen, I chased boys, fought at times with mom and dad and made more than a few mistakes. Watching Brooke stop from tying a #12 fly to write out our adventure from the day in an effort to tell Dad, who just walked in from work, it occurs to me that though I am older, she may in some ways be the more grown up of the Bayer sisters.

-Brooke’s Sister