I was just a young girl when my cousin thought I ought to drive the ranch pickup to the house. Me? No way. He couldn't believe that a girl raised around cows, dirt and familiar with a sweaty brow was unable to drive the ranch pickup down a straight road. He replied "Grandpa's gonna think it's weird that the pickup is at the end of the road". Although I couldn't drive the ol' jalopy, I was spunky "yeah but he would think it was even stranger if the pickup was in the yard". That brought a hardy laugh.
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The front gate of Grandpa and Granny's yard is way older than I am. The entrance is a generational gateway to many memories. A few I remember so fondly -- the 4th of July celebrations we had in the front yard. Granny would always spring for the fireworks and after dark we would all sit around on the grass to watch what was at that time a summer tradition. Other memories include the jokes that our cousins would tell us. None of which I can repeat.
Today as I wandered around the recently mowed yard, I could almost hear the voices, the fireworks, visualize silhouettes of the young and old. Summer air...warm and comfortable. The familiar path through the grass, trodden down by the grandkids.
Grandpa's gone. Granny is 95. A generation of hard working, cow herding, zucchini raising, "not gonna cry with you" people. In their own way, they showed love to their family you cannot duplicate.
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