We ride all the way to the homestead where I grew up, about a mile away. Memories flood me every time I get near.
The gardens we grew. The backyard full of trees I used to climb and build forts in. Our family painstakingly cleared that thicket the spring we moved there when I was six. We were the only house for a long ways, so my dad built a road almost a half-mile long just to get to it. Now over a dozen other houses line the road.
And then there’s the mine. When I was 9 or 10, I decided to “dig a mine” in a random spot in our backyard. About a foot down, my shovel clinked on something: over twenty flint axe heads stashed away by Indians hundreds of years before. But that’s a story for another time.
Each memory that’s triggered feels like pulling old books off shelves of a library I’d forgotten I was filling. I’m 28 now, and I can personally confirm the cliche: time flies. A little bit like the wind in your face on a late-summer evening bike ride.
I love the change of seasons, in spite of the fact it spells the passing of time.
So much of our modern life is about saving time, but it’s good to remember that the things that matter most happen by spending it well. Time flies, but if it’s spent well, then it’s not something to bemoan – but to celebrate.
So let the seasons change. Bring on autumn, and then winter. Every season is beautiful, but to me this one is the most.
If you’re not already, I highly recommend those evening walks or bike rides. Down your own road – and down memory lane.
