We took the in-laws on a drive today after a nice afternoon of enchiladas and spice cake and birthday wishes. It was a glorious day, and the warm sun jumped into the car, almost like a fifth passenger, as we drove past fields of baby sheep and freshly hoed rows.
My father-in-law is a farmer at heart, loving the open spaces and split-rail fences that surround new Victorian homes with detached garages and freshly mowed acres. We sat in the back seat together reminiscing about his own childhood in Salt Lake City, back when you sent your young son across State Street on his bike to fill a bucket of milk from a neighboring family farm.
A long willow branch with a string and lead attached as his first fishing pole that he used up at the top of Mill Creek Canyon.
Flooding their land when it was their turn for irrigation water.
Getting out of the way of oncoming cattle as he, with his young little boy body, opened the gate to let the cows come to the barn for eating and for milking.
This is what these days are made for.