|Looking from the bridge upstream|
In the summer when my older cousin visited we'd make lemonade and try to sell it out at the county road at the end of the lane. The county road was the route for hikers and horse packers to get into the high lakes of the Wallowa Mountains. Very few of the "tourists" stopped, but locals would stop now and then.
My brothers and I always raced our horses from the county road to the house. It's not a good thing to run a horse to the barn, but we always had to see who had the fastest horse. If we raced the full length of the lane, my horse Junebug always won. But if we started at the barn and raced to the house, Smoky, the appaloosa, would win. And my younger brother would bring up the rear on his Welsh pony.
|Looking downstream from the bridge. |
We'd wade in the water and fish.
I lost my eyelashes one spring when the family went out to burn the old grass along the lane. Kids will be kids. I played with the fire, lighting long pieces of grass on fire and got too close to some flames, making my eyelashes curl up when they were singed.
The lane has always been one of my favorite places to walk and think. There are ground squirrels to chuck rocks at, flowers to admire, the sound and sight of birds, and the crunch of gravel under your feet.