Every place has a story. Where I live now, you can find graves in the pasture marked by just a single wooden post surrounded by a pile of rocks. It’s said there are actual dinosaur bones entrenched in one of the beaches of the lake. There’s a hill of chalk rock where generations of families, lovers and children have carved their names or initials.

And there’s an old “dugout” where four horse thieves (two men and two “fancy ladies”) used to hide out. It was on Michael Mousel’s land, my mother-in-law’s great-grandfather. He offered them a $25 gold piece and gold pocket watch for the claim on the land, went up to Stockville (the county seat) 27 miles on horseback – only to find out they were squatters and had never homesteaded the place. By the time he got back they were long-gone.

This past Sunday, we took a hay rack ride along the creek and up and over the hills by our house. But first, the group of 20 stopped at the old picnic grounds which has been there since the 1800s. Many a campfire has been built here and the tradition remains. Using a “Tractor House” magazine as kindle, the men lit the fire and we roasted hot dogs, had s’mores and enjoyed the falling leaves by the creek. We didn’t stay long enough to tell horse stories as dusk, but there’s always another night.

We ended the afternoon with the kids gathering turkey feathers and cow bones and eating Oreo cookies. What a great end to a wonderful day’s story.

Until we walk again …