October 10, 2018:
I remember the smells.
The attic bedroom was musty, with an old-lady scent of dust and mold. The outhouse, obviously, organic with the heavy odor of human waste which made the air feel thick.
The cows were earthy, the horses smelled of straw and sweat. The countryside smelled like the canyon behind our apartment at home: earth, sage, dry wild brush.
Language was subtly different. The canyons were "coolies". A frosty was a "soft serve". Malts were "shakes". Different worlds, intersecting at our colloquialisms.
I tried to stay in bed late, granted my presence was entirely unwanted. All their lives they read me as lazy.
I came home with legs covered in mosquito bites. Along with a 1922 peace dollar that's lived in my pocket ever since.