Oh to be there.
A weekend to while away. The children off chasing calves and the men at a meeting in Laramie. Both sisters up from Denver and a good visit. The last time fun but someone always wanting a cold drink or more coffee. A family reunion sort of thing, that one was. How those always sort out. Some people to run the thing and the rest to sit and talk.
A hike out to the far pasture but right back. No one else with quite the same ambition. Funny. Everyone from the city but the only one in the country.
Used to city life they are with shops and all. Not used to wearing cowboy boots and walking over broken ground. No. Used to looking at mountains that are wild with creatures that are wilder yet from concrete sidewalks and libraries you can walk to instead of ordering from by mail or having to ride three hours to get to if the men have the truck.
But not as civilized for sure. At least not like grandmother would have thought necessary. No lace and no ladies’ shops with decent lingerie within even a two-day drive. Even honeymoon nightgowns having to be made from warm flannel instead of slithery satin.
That and the little girl things. Things that were fun but now are lost. Dancing class at Mrs. Eliot’s. Every Friday afternoon for months and months. Friday for girls and Saturday for little boys.
Dances with legs kicking and dances with arms held up to fly . . . so long and yet if only . . .all the way to the mountains and back home . . . .
