A barren land, sky and cactus, driving south from Illinois to visit grandparents, the terrain changing we enter slow motion, each town 30 miles apart, the distance the pony express could ride in a day.

No longer in a Rambler station wagon, we’re sitting in a covered wagon, squinting, savoring, searching, for the small, four room house, added onto several times— an indoor bathroom, then a large bedroom, filled with bunk beds we would lie on next to open windows and listen to summer sounds during the day, cicadas and cows mooing. During night, the howl of coyotes far off in the distance.

Further west Daddy drives past gas stations and their dirty bathrooms out back, pulls over on the side of the road. We step out watching for rattlesnakes before squatting down.

We had heard the story many times. Our mother, three years old, her daddy yelling, Grace Laverne, you stop right now! Grabs a gun and shoots a rattlesnake. The rattles remain on top the buffet to be revered every summer when we visited