I had a blast introducing her to my young life. We took a few wrong turns because the turn off to a rutted wagon road, marked by a lone boulder in the middle of nowhere, that we had used as a short cut, was now a decent gravel road, and the land mark, the boulder, was gone.
The bay on the lake where we swam was accessed through the poplar trees using a dirt road that had a canopy of leaves overhead. The road is in much better shape now, and houses have been built along it with more buildings further in, overlooking the shore of the bay. Everywhere there were no trespassing signs posted, making it impossible to wander the rocky, sandy shores and skip rocks on the water. I was happy to see there was still public access to the beach where we had, on occasion, taken our horses swimming after participating in a local gymkhana or rodeo.
Barns, buildings, and dirt roads, all lost to twenty-first century life forms; but nothing can remove the memories, the friendships flanged there, and yes, even the shenanigans I was part of. It is the memories, the people, and the stories of this country I grew up in that keeps the old way of life seeded deep in my vault of thoughts. They give me a passion to pass that lifestyle onto those who will listen and read. It wasn’t all fun and games, yet the life lessons and dirt road trails were the backbone of my growing up years. Where I am from guides me to where I need to go.