Though the day was hot, a cool breeze blew across the open prairie taking the sting out of the sun’s rays and scattering tumbling weeds in search of a place to rest. The dirt road stretched for miles connecting the prairie to the mountains. Occasional dusty lanes appeared out of nowhere, like long fingers beckoning us to follow. Rippling fields of wheat sent flashes of green and gold glittering in the light.
Miles of new fencing lined the road that dissected an endless sea of summer wildflowers, prickly pear and prairie grasses. The road quickly turned into a trail of ruts and jagged shale jutting from the dirt that clung stubbornly to hold the stone in place. A line of dust still lingered in the air. An antelope doe and two calves turned and ran as we got near, their white rumps disappearing in the distance.
Over the hill, a row of Russian Olive trees planted as a windbreak years ago lined the grassy drive of the old homeplace. Remnants of the old corral and cattle chute barely stood with most of the fence in ruins. The old yellow house that defied time for so long finally succumbed and fell into a pile of rubble. A lump rose in my throat at the emotion of the moment. Another era seemed to disappear before my eyes.
As the road led up the long slow hill, I dared look back. Remains of the fence and corral threatened to join the other weathered pieces of wood that lay half buried in the tall grass. The scraggly row of Russian Olives dug their roots deeper and stood determined and immovable. Through misty eyes, I saw the house stood tall and strong once again – if only in my memories.
