No Place Like Home

The fields of alfalfa are in blossom. It waves in greeting. I smile. My favorite part of the roadtrip was sunset in Nevada. The freshly cut fields of alfalfa hugged the interstate and the evening air was rich with the fragrance. My heart fluttered in anticipation of the smell of home.



I love gazing across the golden fields of barley. I always think of Willa Cather who captured the heart of the waving fields in her writing.



Oats. The heavy heads are beginning to sag. Across the field a few blackbirds are feasting.



The purple alfalfa blossoms tug me back for a closer look.



As a child I would gaze out from the school bus window at this deserted home on the creek (yep, that is crick in South Dakota). The faded white paint has completely disappeared since then. As I pause here, the white paint returns. A woman is hanging laundry that flaps in the prairie breeze. The garden grows nearby. I can see the bobbing heads of kids amidst the undulating grass. The voices echo...



like they do from my childhood. I remember strolling in the evening with my grandmother and grandfather as they enjoyed the sight of healthy fields of alfalfa, barley, and oats. I scampered ahead with my cousins and brother, blissfully unaware that someday I would live far away from the familiar, fragrant fields. I just enjoyed the road from where I stood.



Now as I stroll, my kids can scamper down the road. I can almost see my grandparents smile down on the next generation. Today I just enjoy the road from where I stand.