w h e r e i g r e w u p, f o r t h e m o s t p a r t
Early this morning, I got the boys out of bed and we went for a short drive along my running route. It's a loop of highway and back-roads that surround my parent's home, although you'd never know it. We grew up deep in a hollow at the end of a half-mile dirt road, so deep that the postal service refuses to deliver packages to the doorstep.
They leave them under the neighbor's porch.
Early morning is the best time to explore, because the mountains are just so blue, with a light fog lifting off the ground as the sun comes up, and the grass white with frost.
Everything is quiet.
Someone just over the mountain owns a ranch, where they keep a few horses ...
... whose manes match my kid's hair, somewhat.
Hay bales. Most are harvested into barns, others sit in the fields through winter.
This cow is number 179. She was the only one of the herd to come right up to the fence,
and stare at me expectantly while I snapped shots of her face.
Occasionally, though, they will all follow behind me when I'm out running,
since their field is parallel to the highway.
Mostly they just stare.
My brothers like to sneak out to this field at night, and play leap-frog over the bales.
There isn't a lot to do around here after dinner.
If you lived here, you would have to move.
Down the hill, near the waterfall: row upon row of white mailboxes.
I bet their packages are delivered to them in person. Lucky.
... And last but not least, just before going back into the warm house : my mother's bicycle, overgrown with ivy,
metal basket full of shells she brought with her to the mountains.
Since we are primarily beach people at heart.
... But, the mountains are beautiful.