At about the time I was three years old, my family acquired an old Victorian house in the town, bequeathed by a distant relative. My family decided to use this house for rest and relaxation on several occasions, the last of which I happened to be 15. I could still picture the grayish abode with its black shutters, wood warped from rain and paint chipped from neglect. On one side of the house a sly patch of ivy was creeping its way up a wall. This seemed strange because ivy isn’t very common in central Nebraska, but nevertheless it had decided to take up residence there. As a child I was in love with this house because of its secrets. In the innards of the house lay three passageways from different rooms to other suggesting that the house was hiding something. I spent many days in these passages

The pond to my left resonated with the sound of spring frogs, chirping the song of seduction. To my right, the evergreen, which had provided shade on a day of blistering heat. There was a boy sitting at its feet I could feel the lines start to haze.

I had only one goal for this entire visit, to see the farm again. The time taken to reach it was the time I was going to stay. After seeing what had happened to the house I expected the path to the farm to be paved and leading to a now fully operational produce facility. What was there was the complete opposite. I couldn’t find the path anymore. My pulse quickened to the thought that I would never learn what happened to the landscape dreams are made of. After searching for several minutes my fears were relieved when I found that, in fact, the path was just over grown with shrubbery.

There it was. Then, there I was. Suddenly surrounded by a field of fantastic splendor. As I stood, the stalks of wheat that had long since claimed this land as their own welcomed me back. Together they swayed with the same western wind that met my face. Then it played same song. It whistled its soothing melody telling me I had found what I was looking for.

I cleared the vegetation as fasts as I could and darted down the familiar path.

Some topics in this essay:
Little Nebraska, Cellar Door, little nebraska, Model-T Ford, Robert Plant, Jimmy Page, Racing Setting, hit head, boy sitting, western wind, route 48, spent days,