Dad moved us to the Land of 4 Seasons when I was just a child.
We were living in Florida at the time and Dad worked as an independent trucker. On a northern pass, his route took him through a little town nearly surrounded by fresh water.
It was love at first sight.
When he returned to Florida he informed Mom that he wanted to move the family to the little town.
It took him time to convince her that it was a good idea.
“It’s extremely cold up there, Charles,” she warned. “We might freeze to death.”
After a couple of years’ Dad’s persuasiveness had its effect.
Mom finally agreed to move.
They never left.
It’s a little town surrounded by hills and bordered on three sides by fresh water lakes and rivers. It’s a place for the outdoor spirit. Nature, hunting, fishing, and sports nurtured me in my formative years.
It’s a place where the wild and civilization collide, and where the seasons of the heartland cross over.
I grew up in the little town and learned to call it home. As a grown man, it still has a hold of my guts.
In everything I do and say, the cold water, the woodland, and the fertile soil speaks through me.
Within my spirit I cling to the seasonal land and covet its freshness and spring bloom.
I grew up into manhood feeling the potency of the seasons in my stoutest bone.
As I live—even when I no longer breathe—I wish that who I am, or what remains of me, is forever touched by the Land of 4 Seasons.
I am faithfully persuaded that as long as the seasons caress my flesh, I will never die.
A block from the family home, main street points east and west. As you move west on it, and look out into the horizon, you can see into forever.
Author of Publius: Libertas Aut Mors & Sword and the Pythia