That’s What I Remember

barefoot kidI remember …

heads of wheat slapping the tops of my barefeet, riding bareback through the field. Galloping summer freedom, the smell of a sweaty horse, a velvet nose and gentle loyalty. Even now, I can feel my hands in his coarse and tatty back mane, burrs in his tail and see cracks in his dry, old hooves.

I remember…

drinking from the hose, bikini bottoms and rubber boots, baby oil suntans and apples off the tree. Stifling heat, dry grasses and the sing song chirp of shiny black crickets in the cracks of August.

I remember …

splinters and slivers, running my hands over sun-split lumber, fixing fence, horseflies buzzing, sage and slough, cattle calling and leather work gloves that held the shape of my dad’s hands.

I remember…

raspberries dangling off the bush, corn stalks higher than my head, leaning out sweet and musky. Jack’s engineer’s hat and hoe, effortlessly gliding through the garden soil. Shelling pounds of peas.

I remember…

ice cold beer in bottles, Fancy Ass jeans, kissing in the moonlight, truck boxes and bonfires, skinny-dipping, slough-swimming, dirt road between my toes, open-hearted, bursting at the seams, wild child.

I remember …

that girl. That throw-her-head-back-laughing, summer kissed, selfishly sixteen girl who wanted to leave. Who wanted love and adventure and to run away from the farm.

Almost thirty years later, I long for a farm to run home to.


One thought on “That’s What I Remember

  1. I haven’t lived at the farm since I was five years old. I returned many summers for years. And many of those things are etched in my soul, my inner me, too. That Kindersley dirt gets on your heart and never leaves. I think it’s because our family was the first to break that soil,to pierce it’s surface… when our grand parents came from far away. All their hopes, dreams, tears, and finally bodies are in the ground there. Even though we don’t own a house there any more, it is still ours. We have a rock at Merrington that says it is so. Love it

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