The antler rack at the side of the pack horse told me that the horse was carrying a large buck. I turned back to the house to let Sarah know that we’d likely have a visitor.She came out to the porch and looked down the pasture to where the flat white snow was only broken by the single track where I’d ridden down yesterday to check the fences. A new track in the snow was following Roy.She was wearing the long dress she’d put on to make breakfast, but even after lunch, her feet were still bare, and she hopped around on the cold porch. Framed by her chestnut hair, a wrinkle in her forehead, her green eyes looked up at me.“He coming here?” she asked.“Looks like,” I said. “If he was headed home, no need to come up this way.”Roy Thomas, his brother, and their pa lived about ten miles east of us. The meadow that spread across the valley we shared with them was pretty flat between our place and theirs, but there was no carriage road, only a horse path. Two strong streams crossed the meadow,. “Great, we live in Greenwich. We’ll get you almost to your front door.” He said smiling at my in the rear view mirror “Far out,” I exclaimed coining the vernacular of the day. “I can call my parents and they’ll come get me.” Southward we rolled along Interstate 95 in Maine. Past the sweet smelling Burnham & Morrill baked beans plant in Portland and the stinking paper mill town of Westbrooke. We passed Ogunquit and Saco. The dad and I talked baseball, politics, and since we were New Englanders we got around to everyone’s favorite subject, the weather. We crossed into New Hampshire and circumnavigated the traffic circles of Portsmouth. Still I was having no luck engaging the girl sharing the backseat. I had been able to learn her name: Katie. Only because I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. She gave me a displeased look. “Oh yeah, that’s right Katie. Your dad…” What an idiot I was. That felt even weirder because in the tribal culture of long-haired America names weren’t.
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