photograph © Neil Reid
A Postcard home from when.

How can it be so small, came the thought those years later returning again. Little more than a closet and bed. Although even then reaching out, out beyond just the walls of things. Nob Hill just west across and up the street, small, but large enough for a boy's wandering. Draped in older boy's foot trails and poison oak. Watch for the shiney leaves, we said. Far west Murphy's peak, and tall enough to paint even young faces red and watching for rattlesnakes. The summer hills all smelled of manzanita and sun baked dry grass and dirt. That smell that has and still does, leave me wanting more. Those west hills moved into ever deeper darker higher, hills of older aging redwood shadows tasting coastal fog and mystery, dreams that were there long long before seeing me. Broad and flat east, was the quilt of orchards waiting their time of year and care - the farmer's slow hard life with earth to be earned. Miles of roads and all the bumps and ruts that became as family to us. East past them, hills as bright as sun in steeper ridges, like clouds of earth, that high brown brow, each seemingly more intent than the last. Hidden there in plain view the way it was before we came, and listening you hear far and far away older dreams than ever ours. Tall and hidden of casual view and all open to the sky. A great and broad mirror of earth. This was home, once upon a time.