Published on April 29, 2024 at 9:25 p.m. / Modified on April 29, 2024 at 9:26 p.m.
Somewhere in the countryside of Maine, in the United States, at the end of the 1940s, on a dairy farm, lives a close-knit family. The parents, Tup and Doris, and their children, Sonny, Dodie and Beston, get up every day at dawn, cultivate their garden, plow their fields, fill their cellar with vegetables, take care of the chickens, castrate the calves, every morning send the milk by truck to the cooperative, load the heavy green bales of hay into the granaries. The family shares all meals in a comfortable kitchen, in the warmth of the wood stove, exchanging words at the large table, simple words, few in number. Then in the evening, she sits on the porch, sitting on the swing and chairs, or in the living room, reading books aloud or playing cards or piano, listening to music, then wishes each other good night and goes up to bed in neighboring rooms, fireflies hanging on the mosquito nets, owls hooting in the night.
A misfortune that appears out of nowhere
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