Walking Down the Same Road

My husband and I returned a couple days ago from a visit with my elderly parents in the gold country of California.  They live in an area that was homesteaded by my father’s family.  Our ancestors arrived after gold was discovered nearby.  I have never lived in this area but I feel a strong connection just the same.  My father grew up in a house just up the road that is now owned by my first cousin.  His mother grew up just down the road from my parents’ home.  Her parents owned the property which is now owned by strangers.  Other relatives once lived in the area and I can remember visiting them when I was a child; some of those houses are now gone.

We took a walk down the road from my parents’ house.  As we walked I was aware that we walked the same route that my father and his mother before him walked to their one room school.  I could almost picture my grandmother as a little girl skipping down the road.  Of course, the road would not have been paved in the early 1900s and there weren’t so many houses.  However, I suspect much of the route looks the same.  Majestic oaks spread their long branches.  In the winter mistletoe dots their bare limbs.  In the ravines the blackberry bushes are thick and unfriendly.  Deer peer shyly from behind bushes while the turkeys scurry away. 

My family walked this road before me and I feel the connection.  I took photos with the hope that I could take a bit of it home with me.  This land touches my memory and my heart.