Living in a small town in the plains of West Texas evokes very strong & happy memories for me.  I remember the fun of sliding on our hard wood floors in my sock feet, and of playing outside until dusk with other children in the neighborhood.  I rode my bicycle everywhere it seems, & always felt very safe doing so.

The smells that came from the kitchen when Mother was baking brought all of us inside to see if we could have “just a taste.”  And because my Grandfather came to live with us after his wife died, He provided lasting impressions upon those early years of mine.  He walked with a cane, wore a hat, & loved to chew tobacco.  Mother was always telling him not to spit out the front door.

And speaking of the front door, we never locked ours.  Or if we did, it must’ve been only when we were gone out of town.  The next door neighbors just came right on in without knocking, as we thought of them as family.  And on Sunday afternoons, relatives would drive to visit us & everyone sat at the table & drank coffee & told stories & laughed.

And they wore hats.  I loved my childhood years.

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