I had just returned from a trip overseas visiting the gorgeous countryside of Scotland and England. Those lush green meadows were the home of many sheep. As far as my eyes could see, sheep dotted the hills all the way to the horizon. I loved watching the shepherd on horseback, riding among the sheep, counting the numbers, and making sure all were well. Imagine my surprise to this ideal setting when the headlines in a magazine stated, “Outbreak of Ravens Attacking Sheep.” 

The rodeo had come to our small town. Many people eagerly turned out to see the horses, riders, and their loved ones marching in the bands. A famous movie star, who played a cowboy on our black-and-white TV, rode in a shiny white convertible and waved to the crowd. Sitting upon my dad’s broad shoulders, I had a bird’s eye view. At the young age of four, I waved to everyone and everything until my skinny arms grew tired. When the majorettes made their appearance, they twirled their batons high in the air and caught them with perfection.

Throughout the years, I have enjoyed baking with my grandchildren. The cakes are usually made for special occasions and shared by the entire family. I always want my “grands” to feel they “created” the cake, so I only help on special occasions. If the directions were followed precisely, the cake was bound to be a wonderful expression of their work. When they were much younger, many times egg shells were dropped into the mix and baked right in. As it was baked, the cake smelled wonderful and the grands ran into the kitchen asking if it was ready. 

When I was a little girl, my family took vacations with other families. In the evenings, our families usually ate together in one of cabins, while the adults recalled the day’s adventures and planned the next day. When I heard of plans to visit a special restaurant that featured outdoor dancing, my heart leapt. This special restaurant had a large concrete dance floor surrounded by lights strung from pole to pole.  

Years ago, I was riding on a ski lift with my husband. The wind was blowing, but not enough to cause me to shiver in the cold. No, I was shivering due to what my eyes were taking in. My heart was overwhelmed with the beauty of the thickly-laden snowcapped branches of the pine trees.

Standing in the living room, I looked to the mountains in the distance.  I immediately threw up my hands and turned myself into a spinning machine. I imagined myself as Julie Andrews singing on top of the mountain, “The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music” as my husband sat with a worried look on his face.

On the back porch in the cool of the evening, I sat as a child with my father as he de-stressed from work. He was a man of a few words, so I watched silently as his strong hands cracked pecans produced from the large pecan tree in our yard. It was a peaceful time. Every so often he would lean over with a fresh pecan and pop it in my mouth while smiling down at me. We had a red cardinal that lived in that large pecan tree and at times it would make an appearance.

As I sat at my desk and looked out the window at the fluffy clouds in the sky, I was reminded of a conversation with a friend a few years ago. She told me the area east of us in Texas had gotten snow, and we had not even seen a drop of rain. At that time, I felt a little twinge of sadness because I love to see snow.