Memory Lane, Without The Potholes.

Last August we gathered near the old farmstead to celebrate my parent's 50th anniversary.  During a lull in the festivities some of us decided to work off some cheese cubes and meatballs by walking the 300 yards to the farmyard.  River and Denver hadn't seen it up close and despite strangers living on-site I felt no qualms walking straight up the drive and horsing around in the decrepit silo.  I realized I felt a sense of proprietorship of the place, as if the strangers were allowed to shelter there only by my benevolent absence.  The place - house, barn, trees, fields, silo - felt as much a part of me as my thoughts, and I was pleased at the chance to reveal my thoughts to the boys.

Bailey, River, Denver, soybeans & mosquitoes.

My childhood playground.

In the silo, watching clouds.

 Culture shock.

 40 feet of imagination.

Survivors of the Silo (Wool reference).