Late July, I was walking up the gravel driveway in the middle of the day, ten years old. The driveway followed along a ridge that lined a steep descent into a narrow valley; Christmas trees planted perpendicular to the incline, rows as far down the hill as the tractor could go without tipping. On the other side, across the tiny creek, an opposing hill rose not as steep, but higher, also marked with Christmas trees planted with the grade of the incline; chest high Frasier Firs and six foot Pines. The sky was blue and cloudless, hot and humid. Grasshoppers jumped out the way with each step and there was a perpetual call of insects buzzing and clicking. I looked out from ridge, the view, taking a break from the climb. I thought: "This is beautiful," or at least, I thought, "Folks older than me would probably consider this 'beautiful', but I don't know that word means. Maybe one day I will." I miss the summers on the farm.