When it rained, whatever rusty, duct-taped, wired-up vehicle we were driving at the time had to be parked at the top of the quarter mile ribbon of instant, knee-deep mud we called a driveway. Sometimes I would take a run at it. Then spend stranded hours or days digging, jacking and cursing.
I have clear images of walking up that driveway in the rain almost 30 years ago. A family in garbage bags. Holes cut for head and arms to stick through. A child on my shoulders. Sometimes a garbage bag full of laundry in each hand.
This morning, Seedbud posted in leaf and twig an image of an old empty farm building and wrote of wind and memories. Memories came rushing back. Up the road from us was just such a building. We called it Castle of the Wind. At night we would often hear wolves howling in the fields of pioneer growth.