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Kountry Life Memories
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The Old Days
I like to dream of the old days, like back when the west was young, like back when the times seemed endless, and the bad guys still got hung. I'd like to see a stage coach running, raising a cloud of dust, and watch the outlaws gunning for treasures like gold dust. I'd like to see a wild horse pounding its hoofbeats on the trail, and watch a steam locomotive go down the western rail. I'd like to see the sheriff boldly walking down the street, surveying all before him, and then the bad guys meet. I'd like to see a shootout in Dodge City or Tombstone, and smell the gunsmoke hovering in the air when they are gone. I'd like to see a roundup and watch the branding done, hear the cattle bawling, and smell the branding iron. I'd like to watch a lasso go around a doggie's crown, another catch his hind legs and then put him on the ground. I'd like to see a wagon train slowly making its way west, each passenger with a dream and a hope for happiness. I'd like to see a farmer as he walks behind the plow, clucking to his faithful mules and daydreaming through the hours. I'd like to ride in our old farm wagon again, the one with the rough steel tires, pulled by our little team of mules to whereever was required. I'd like to see a cotton field when it was white as snow. I used to ride on the cotton sack while my mother picked the row. I'd like to see a barefoot boy as he walked down the road, straw hat, cane pole, and can of worms, heading for the fishing hole. I'd like to ride in the old car again, the one with the rumble seat, and feel the wind in my face. Now I thought that was really neat. I'd like to ride our horses again, Old Rhody, Dolly, and Nell. I used to ride them like the wind, over hill and dell. I'd like to go splashing again at our favorite swimming holes, Old Jeremiah, and Miller too, over near Mr. Jim Cole. I'd like to go hunting again with my dad's old twenty-two, upon the Iron Ore Mountain. That was my favorite thing to do. I'd like to go to church again where we used to sing and pray. We used to walk there, even in the dark. It was a mile each way. To me those were the good old days, though I'm prejudiced there's no doubt. Our neighbors were the best of friends. When we'd get in trouble, here they'd come to help us out. We can't go back to the 'old days.' They are far too long gone. But we can still dream of them, and of all the old times that we've known.

Submitted By: Randall Gray from AR on 2017-02-09

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