When I was a little kid my parents would take me and my baby brother for drives around the river.

Eileen Hennemann

We lived in a large suburb outside of Montreal, but escaping to the country was still very accessible for our brief Sunday adventures.

As a child, the scenes through my window meant nothing to me. The barns and fields were just something to gaze at until we got home from our family Sunday drive.

And today? I can’t get enough of the view. The fields and meadows, dirt roads and cart trails, cedar fences and stone walls, rock mounds and piled brush, weathered farmhouses and painted barns, stop me time and time again.

Our country drives take much longer now. We drive slowly not only because of the deer that cross in front of us, but to stop and take photographs of yet another idyllic farm scene. We walk around and take a closer look, stretch our legs and breathe in the redolent country air. The sky is bright and clouds brighter still on a warm summer day. Pine beetles hum in the trees and grasshoppers flash off into the tall grass. If it’s the right time of day the meadowlarks sing for us. Time stops, as do the thoughts that jumble the mind. It is peaceful and beautiful and that’s all that matters in that moment.

I know now that each pasture has a history and each homestead is part of the fabric of where we live. It is no longer surprising to me how much these scenes fill me up. Our Sunday drives are therapeutic and soft reminders that the simple enjoyment of a slow drive on our back roads makes things a little easier, a little nicer for when we return to our jobs, our house chores, our responsibilities big or small. And maybe it lets you be a kid again on a Sunday drive.

eileenhennemann.com  | thetencollective.com