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 1971. Without those two reminders
I could easily pretend 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 pulling
a 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 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, situate
myself on the pillows or coats in the cab behind the wheel and 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 window
seat........being the youngest I was not privileged for much on road
trips.
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 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.
