Description

Three colorful lizard on some sort of Mexican or native american stlye banket. All three lizards are brightly colored, but all with different patterns, which I believe symbolizies a difference in all things that exsist within the world. The feather between the lizards might be some sort of common things that draws the differences in the lizards away, and shows that while different, they are still alike in atleast one way.

I would rather be in Cainsville, Missouri. Cainsville is a tiny little town where my grandfather was raised, and where I used to spend countless hours as a kid roaming around the property. All the old sheds, and the barn were huge playgrounds for me, and everything was a new toy. As a grew up, I started to get more into hunting, and once again, every piece of the property was a new adventure. I spent many weekends hunting, enjoying the peacfulness of nature. Cainsville is also were my grandmother is buried, and she meant the world to me. She spoiled me rotten, and was always there to lend a word of advice or help heal a scraped knee as a child. Cainsville is always just, an escape for me, a way to get away from reality or the busy life I sometimes have and just relax. I can be myself there, and I can remember just what matters to me.

I can see the old white farm house. It's exactly what you'd picture a farm house from the 1920's to appear like, large front porch, dark wood floors and cabinets. I can see the sheds that used to hold all my grandfather's tools, and junk he'd aquired over the years. I can smell fresh food cooking in the kitchen, just like my grandmother always busied herself with. The things my grandma cooked would have you slobbering at the smell alone, it was that good. I can smell fresh earth, the sweet aroma of soil that only comes from the ground being turned up. I can smell the sweetness of hay after it's cut, but before it dries. Of course, I can smell the waste of cattle, but as my grandpa always said, if you could smell them poopin, it meant you still had money to come from them. I can smell the mustiness of the barn where i used to play for hours on end. I can smell the distinct smell of my grandmother's perfume, and it literally takes me back to being a kid and she was still alive. A farm is full of different feelings. From the rough ride of a tractor banging up your rear end, to the first rub of a newborn calve's smooth coat. The feeling of sitting on the couch after working all day with my grandfather and it being so soft, just like sitting on a cloud. Most vividly, i can feel the touch of my grandfather, and grandmother, hugging me before I would leave to go back to my parents house. Their lovingness in those hugs was so dominate, so caring.  I can hear the familiar sounds of a tractor out in the fields, a cow from the neighbors bellowing. I can hear my grandmother's voice talking at the dinner table, or while watching tv. I can hear darks barking, my grandparents always had a dog for as long as I can remeber. I can hear myself playing, banging into things in the barn. I can still hear the glass shatter on a vase of my grandmother's that I knocked over one day when I was paying inside. I can still hear my grandmother telling me it was okay, while at the same time my grandfather was scolding me about playing inside when there's plently of things for a boy to do outside. I can taste dirt from driving a tractor or the combine allday in the heat of the summer. I can taste the water that was ice cold once I got off the tractor . I can taste my grandmother's wonderful cooking, and her pies at Christmas time. I can taste the bitterness of the first beer I ever drank, the one I stole out of my grandfather's fridge when I was a teenager. I can taste fresh air, not the kind of air you get when you walk outside your house in Springfield, but the kind of air that taste like it's never seen any sort of pollution. Pure, crsip air. I can taste the deer and turkey that I shot while hunting. I can feel, see, hear,smell and taste happiness.

The first time I ever remember truely getting yelled at my my Grandfather was at the farm. For me, the farm was a playground of old, cool junk. The back porch had a crawl space under it, and typically it's were the dogs slept since they stayed outside. I believe I was either 4 or 5 years old and I had been playing outside all day, just as my grandfather liked it. I'd been in the barn and found these cool little wood stick with red ends on them inside a box. I knew what matches were because I'd seen my grandfather start alot of fire's in the old house to keep it warm in the winter. I decided that the best place for me to play with these matches would be in the nice shady spot, out of the hot sun, underneath the back porch. I didn't fully grasp the concept of the porch being wood as an issue with matches. I crawled under the deck and started to light match after match, just watching them burn like any 4 year old pyro would do. I remebeer lighting one match, and dropping it, conviently on an old ratty blanket the dogs slept on. Boom. The blanket acted like it'd been soaked in gasoline because it lit up quick, and thus starting to burn the deck above. Luckily, my grandmother was in the kitchen and got it put out before it did too much damage, but man, my Grandfather made it hard for me to sit comfortably for the next week.