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I grew up on the great plains of Western Kansas. Even though it was more years ago than I care to remember, I can still recall the fresh breezes blowing in the evenings as we would sit on our porch and watch the fields of wheat dancing in the wind. The call of doves and meadowlarks would fill the air with a joyous sound, reminding one of the pure joy of living. Quail and pheasant were abundant, and cotton tail rabbits were everywhere, bounding with their inimitable grace. While we didn't see them, there were tracks of mountain lions which would wander down from their Colorado homelands to follow the meandering creeks in search of a meal.

We were far from the pollution of the industrial complexes of the major cities, and it was obvious when viewing the stars at night. Their shimmering images were perfectly clear and seemed to be almost within arms length.
Those who lived in that time of peace and solitude considered themselves the luckiest people on earth. The air was clean and sweet. The people were caring and friendly. Life was good. In the winter, the cold wind came down from Canada with nothing between Kansas and Canada except a barbed wire fence. But the beauty of the snow piled to the top of the fence posts, and as white as cotton balls, made the biting cold seem less miserable.
I no longer live in the Midwest, but I recall fondly my childhood and early adulthood in the fields of Western Kansas and sometimes wish I were there again.

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