The road is dusty as I drive up the canyon. I guess there's no one left but me who remembers how this valley used to be when I was young. There’s not much left of mom and dad's old place. A decaying house, an old stone wall, the windmill and the shed where Daddy stored his equipment. I open the partly ajar door of the house. There are leaves on the floor, but it otherwise seems mostly intact. It is so neat to remember when we used to live here. We had no electricity, and not even a bathroom or running water. The kitchen was huge, with a large pantry. I climb the rickety old stairs to the second floor and look out the small window at the old windmill, the corrals and loading chutes. As I walk the grounds, I marvel at the beauty of this land. The hillsides and fields are beginning to turn the gold of summer. Splashes of yellow mustard paint the hills and purple flowers tint the hollows. Ah, but there is a lot to reflect on this morning as I think of those by-gone days of this old homestead. In the shed, I find a prized treasure; Daddy's old saddle. Still on the stand as he left it, with his spurs beside it and the saddle blanket draped below. My, how he loved that saddle, I can still hear the echoes of his voice as he talked about it. "A Newton Porter original," he would say. "No finer saddle was ever made." It's worn, and patched from years of hard use, but this treasure and the memories it carries are priceless. What a sentimental homecoming. | 
