The place that I come from is one that on a warm day I could get on my motorcycle and ride off in any direction and nobody even noticed. I could ride several directions to a huge field where only one tree stood and was surrounded by wheat fields and there was an old farmhouse becoming more and more abused by the weather and time unattended as each day went by. I could see off in the distance the town below that was "home" and in another direction the freeway that was a reminder that is was the year 1969 or 70. Without those two reminders I could've easily pretended to be "Laura" or "Mary" from the Little House Series of books that one of my elementary class teachers had read every word of to us as we laid on little rugs brought specifically for that purpose. (This was long before the Little House Series hit the television screens!) I remember laying in that field as if I were on my blanket and would think about that teacher for she had given each of us in that class the desire along with the ability to read. This place had been "mine" since I was 11 years old and had proven that I could handle that motorcycle on the mountain roads I explored. The other place I would ride to was what we named "The Breaks." It was a place where I would sit on a huge boulder and look out over the crevices between the mountains where they "broke" into separate mountains and you could see far far down where the rivers and creeks would be if you could've see them through the trees. But it was so high up that seeing between the trees was impossible. You could listen to this place and almost hear Angels talking as the breeze created sounds that made you look behind you and around to see who was saying something and then look again to see if anyone was just pullinga joke on you from behind a tree or somewhere or had seen you looking around with a look of surprise or almost fear of the unknown. Then it would send a chill down my back and start a whole new train of thoughts and off I would go again. Other "spaces" in my era, my "time" and in my memory belong to my grandparents ranch and the countless Sundays I would spend there in the powder fine dust, riding and petting horses that Grampa said I could buy from him if I could come up with $50 (which he knew would take me forever to save), climbing on the wheat combines that harvested the 10,000 acres of farmland he planted in wheat and barley, checking out all the new baby pigs that were in pens with huge mamas that we were strictly warned NOT to even put a finger through the fencing of if we expected to keep that finger! Climbing up to the top of the barn and opening the hay door so that we could see who was coming out from the house. When I was older, about 13 or 14 and would get bored Grampa would toss me the keys to the old farm truck and me and whoever was there and brave enough to join me would run for the old truck, situating myself on the pillows or coats in the cab behind the wheel and soon we would be ripping down that dirt road as fast as I dared with a cloud of that brown powder rising high behind us. That world seems so far away now. My sister would get car sick in the same location every Sunday on the way as the road to Gramma & Grampa's was long, two lanes, very hilly and curvy and it never failed that she would turn green and we would have to stop to let her puke. My brother would fail to mention he had to pee and would be given a pop bottle cuz Dad wasn't stopping again.......and back then the bottles were glass and had no screw back on and forget it caps.......he would hold it between his feet until he could safely pour it out at the ranch. And me, I just sat in the middle cuz I was not privileged enough to get a windowseat........being the youngest I was not privileged for much on roadtrips. After having my own kids I would think about how I valued the memories of the ranch, the cabin, the family reunions that so many cousins, aunts, uncles, and their cousins, and their kids and new husbands, or new wives, Grampas and Grammas and GREAT Grammas and sisters of Grammas and Grampas would attend that we HAD to rent the Grange Hall a 1/4 mile down the road to fit us all. Everyone came with something to eat in hand and proud to show it off. We all had our favorites and would run to see if that is what that person brought for us again that year. I actually grew up and became the master of the "Dream Torte" that I made and it felt odd that now there were kids checking to see if that is what I brought that year. The smells coming from that hall were amazing and still make my stomach growl just thinking about it all. After the food was eaten, the deserts cut into and visited a second time the men would bring out the guitars and start playing songs they all loved to sing and hear. The women would all be in the kitchen cleaning and doing dishes and wrapping up food and making sure everyone got the (now empty) dish that they brought with them. Then when the ladies were done they would join everyone and the music would go on for what seemed like an eternity. They all had such beautiful voices the men did. I remember my mom always requesting her favorite; Green Green Grass of Home and the guys never hesitated to oblige her. I wished that my kids could've had that in their lives, I wanted them to feel what I felt because of that family. I finally realized that they were creating their own memories of the places my parents lived, the people that were still alive, still visited by us. It just seems that that entire era is gone now. No one gets together anymore, no one drives two or three hours to get to the ranch like we did every week, no one cooks or sings anymore. We've all gotten old, many have died and it's now the era of the grandkids kids........It all went so fast. I miss it.