I was born into a small town full of agriculture. The everlasting sound of combines plowing the fields filled the air. The roads are always covered in the fresh corn residue that sticks to the tires of our Volvo. I spend hours drenching the car with soapy water to brush off the ground kernels. As a family, we take the freshly cleaned car on a spin to my great grandpa’s farm. My cousins meet us at the farm; to roll marbles down the steep sidewall on the hill. The marbles quickly rush down the hill until reaching the rocky drive­way. We then spend hours sneaking into the dusty barns to explore for treasures. We always looked through the aged hay to find rats cowering in the corner of the horse pen. We hear the call of our parent wondering where we maybe hiding. We open the small door of the red barn to escape from being found red­handed. We quickly exit the barn and return to the running Volvo. As we return to the house on the hill, we follow a tractor leaving the debris as seen before. We smell the fresh manure through the freshly plowed fields. The smell pierces through the small town and lasts for generations. The speedometer reduces to five miles per hour, so we passed the leisurely tractor, quickly. Making it home as the sun falls behind our backs, on the fall afternoon.

I was born into a small town full of people. The everlasting sound of summer fills the illuminating sky. The times of rolling down the steep hill always lasted for hours. When grass stains appear on my weather jeans like magic that always seem to last. The endless exhaustion that is aided with a full glass of homemade lemonade. The fun of walking to the school to play on the noisy swingsets that always seemed to creak in every swing. The everlasting need to glide down the twisty slide with my sisters. Returning to the platform where my dad is hiding to pop out and chase me down the slide. The relationships and memories with my family would not be as apparent without growing up in a small town.