I have spent a lot of my life in this field.
I remember dropping down into the hay to hide from my brother. The tall grass provided endless spots to conceal myself. Together, we would smash down the alfalfa until we created rooms and hallways and entire forts in the green expanse. After the grass was cut, we would run down the hill and jump over the hay bales, our ankles covered in scratches from the dried short shoots poking through the dirt. We spent hours playing house in the little dwelling my father built in the oversized bush up above the tract.
In the fall - after it froze but before it snowed - we would scour the hillside for cow pies. With sticks, we would overturn the hardened crap and then disect it, examining the worms and parasites dead inside. We had plenty of cat funerals in that field and spent some sleepless nights curled up in sleeping bags on the adjacent trampoline listening to coyotes whining in the distance. We beheld moose, deer, snakes, pheasants and all kinds of small mammals and my sister even spotted a mountain lion darting over the cropland one morning. The field led us to the mountain, where we hiked up to pick black caps - wild berries- at the end of each summer.
I experienced my first kiss as a 16-year-old up near the top of the field and - I'm not going to lie to you - that wasn't the only one I shared up there. As a teenager I spent many overly-dramatic walks across the land contemplating my feelings and conjuring up deep thoughts ;-). There wasn't a better place to think than the hillside, which provided the most beautiful view of Cache Valley.
Every memory I have of the field is a good one.
And nothing compares to sharing it all with my kids.
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