The River and the Barrel

     When we were little kids, our family didn't have much, as was true for most of the people we knew, but I still felt connected to the world in certain ways.  There was a song, probably uttered by Uncle Joe, who didn't actually sing, but would sing-song as we followed him around as he diverted water rivulets with his hoe and cultivated his rhubarb patch.  One song had the words, "You can't holler down my rain barrel, or slide down my cellar door," and we had both a rain barrel and a cellar door.  I have vague memories of hollering down our rain barrel, and it seems likely we did slide down the cellar door, or try to at least.  A few years later, we sang, in school, "Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go."  My grandmother did indeed live over the river, and for years we actually got there via "Wood Road."  I felt a little disappointed that we didn't go there by horse and sleigh, but I'd realized times had changed.  And we were always warmly welcomed, and there was often pie, so we were part of the world, as far as I could see. 
    It's odd that a connection to the world at large could have been forged from such a slender basis, but that now, with so many outreach options available, isolation prevails.