Rick’s Ridge
All my dogs are buried here. Faithful companions on countless hikes (ya wanna go for a walk, huh?) their spirits run free here, chasing rabbits they will never catch. I cherish this.
The Ancient Ones lived here. Long before I arrived (by about 979 years) these people found the volcanic soil here quite comfortable and made this their home, off and on, for a couple of centuries. Evidence of their stay are everywhere, in the form of pottery shards - all shapes, color and sizes. Gently rubbing their gritty-smooth surface between fingers and thumb the enchantment of knowing that the last person to touch this piece of hardened clay lived so long ago (back when my kin were still stumbling around Europe looking for a place to stay), it still gives me the shivers. I remember this.
I proposed to my wife here. After a rather long pause for dramatic purposes (and to watch me squirm) she finally said “Yes” and we have been together ever since. In these very woods is where, after out quite merry wedding reception, our “best man” happily drove around, lost, for a couple of hours in his VW Bug convertible with the top down, trying to find his way home. I relish this.
My God dwells here. Over the years it has become my church, my sanctuary, and sometimes, my confessional. There is a closeness here that, for me, exists no place else on Earth. I love this.
I will some day be here. My alkaline ashes effectively neutralizing a small patch of acidic soil. Perhaps something beautiful will grow there. I am truly happy here. For it is where my heart is. I feel this.