I don't know why I remember so vividly the feel of rough bark on my back as I sat in the old oak tree watching with wonder all that went on underneath me.

As a child I would take a kitchen chair to the gigantic oak tree with it's stately branches to high up for me to reach otherwise. I'd climb up in the chair and on tiptoe stretch until muscles screamed to reach the lowest branch of the old tree. In my mouth or pockets if I had one, I had pencil and paper.

From my lofty perch I would watch the cows wade into the pond to cool off until only their head was visible. The colt would race pell mell across the pasture as if the devil himself were after him. My little black and tan part fiest, part chihuahua barked frantically wanting to be in the tree with me since she was my constant companion.

The drone of the old John Deere could be heard in the back field as Daddy plowed the land reading it for seed to be sown. The sweet scent of honeysuckle tickled my nose and my fingers itched to be able to use my pencil to paint all the scenes, describe the scents, tell the story of all my imagination could conger up high above the earth and far away from any other human. My ideas flowed as my hand transcribed.