When I left home for college, I sought to escape the limited world of farmers, small towns, and country life. I long for the excitement of the city, for the fast pace that rural life lacked, for adventure beyond the horizon. I dreamed of exploring the city, living within a new culture and landscape, and becoming part of the pulse of an urban jungle. Yet some of my best times were driving home, leaving the city behind and slipping back into the valley. As city life disappeared and traffic thinned, I could see the faces of the other drivers relax. Then, around a bend in the highway, the grassland of the valley would come into being, offering a view of gentle rolling hills. The land seemed permanent. I felt as if I had stepped back in time. I took comfort in the stability of the valley. Driving through small farm communities, I imagined the founding families still rooted in their grand homes, generations working the same lands, neighbors remaining neighbors for generations. I allowed familiar farmhouse landmarks to guide me. Close to home, I often turned off the main highway and took a different, getting familiar farms again and testing my memory. Friends lived in those houses. I had eaten meals and spent time there; I had worked on some of these farms, lending a hand during a peak harvest, helping a family friend for a day or two. The houses and lands looked the same, and I could picture the gentle faces and hear familiar voices as if little had been changed. As I eased into our driveway I'd return to old ways, becoming a son once again, a child on the family farm. My feelings were honest and real. How I longed for a land where life stood still and my memories could be relived. When I left the farm for college, I could only return as visitor to the valley, a traveler looking for home. Now the farm is once again my true home. I live in that farmhouse and work the permanent lands. My world may seem unchanged to casual observers, but they are wrong. I know this: if there's a constant on these farms, it's the constant of change. The good observer will recognize the differences. A farmer replants an orchard   with a new variety of peaches. Irrigation is added to block of old grapes, so I imagine the vineyard has a new owner. Occasionally the changes are clearly evident, like a FOR SALE sign. But I need to read the small print in order to make sure that a bank has taken possession of the farm. Most of the changes contain two stories. One is the physical change of the farm, the other involves the people on that land, the human story behind the change. I've been back on the farm for a decade and still haven't heard all the stories behind the changes around me. But once I add my stories to the landscape, I can call this place my home, a home that continues to evolve and changes as I add more and more of my stories. A poet returns to the valley and says, "Little has changed in the valley, and how closed-minded you all are!" He comments about the lack of interest in sports, social and environmental issues in the poverty and inequality of our life. He was born and raised here, so he might have the right to criticize and lecture us. Yet he speaks for many who think they know the valley. How differently would others think of us if they knew the stories of a grape harvest in a wet year or a peach without a home? What made the writer relax as he drove from the city to the country?
The land seemed familiar to him. The traffic moved more slowly. He could see for miles and miles. The people he passed seemed to be calmer.