A thought I constantly ponder is that of why one thought or another will, for no explainable reason, jump into the mind. This is why on one ordinarily average Thursday I entertained an idea of years past. One memory in particular appeared to stick in my mind; that of a little Nebraska town aptly called Little Nebraska. This small farming region of the great west could be found 53 and one half miles down Route 48 exit 39.
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 fighting spies, pirates, and other villains. No one knew these passages but I.
As beautiful as the house may have been in its dilapidation, it was not what I valued the most in my memories of Little Nebraska. The real treasure was an abandoned farm one to two miles out of town. This I did not discover until my last visit while one day wandering down a dirt path. There, was a wheat field that not only spanned the horizon but the imagination. It was one of the rare places where the lines between reality and fantasy are slightly blurred. It was the sunset that played over the field that could mesmerize and entrance you. This was what I was going to see. .
At twenty-one years I longed to go back.
