Cascades of Sparkles and sand

 Growing up in a rural area surrounded primarily by senior neighbors shaped my childhood in unique ways. The landscape was dominated by an arid desert, punctuated by flooded fields of alfalfa that brought bursts of green to the otherwise dry terrain. The homes varied widely, from thrown-together shacks and adobe casitas to mobile homes and sturdily built wooden and brick structures. This eclectic mix of dwellings created a sense of community that felt both diverse and intimate.

One of the most memorable aspects of my upbringing was our small farm. We raised chickens for eggs, and I vividly recall the daily routine of collecting warm, fresh eggs from the coop. The clucking of the hens and the gentle rustle of feathers became a comforting backdrop to my childhood. We also had milk goats, whose playful antics brought joy to our days. Milking them became a cherished task, and the rich, creamy milk was a staple in our home. These experiences instilled a deep appreciation for the land and the simple joys of farm life. One may even think those goats and the barn cats were my most inner circle of friends. The animals still hold the fondest of warm memories of playing into the darkness, laying beside the under trees and bushes protected from winds and rain. Hiding among the warmth of the chicken coop on blustery winter days to read my book or get lost in my imagination. 

Living among seniors meant I was immersed in a wealth of stories and experiences. My neighbors, with their weathered hands and wise eyes, shared tales of their youth, often filled with lessons learned and adventures taken. I remember sitting on porches, sipping of sun tea or hot coffee, and listening to them recount how they weathered storms—both literal and metaphorical. “You know,” Mrs. Autry would say, her voice soft but steady, “the desert may seem barren, but it has a way of teaching you resilience. Just like us, it endures.” Their narratives taught me resilience and the importance of community. From stories of the depression to the respect of nomadic workers, to histories of natural disasters and fallen relatives of wars far away. 

The slower pace of life in our rural setting had its advantages. There was a sense of safety and familiarity; everyone knew each other, and we all looked out for one another. Neighbors would drop by unannounced, bringing fresh goods or surplus vegetables from their gardens. “Just picked these from my patch,” Mrs. Simpson would say with a grin, handing over a bag of ripe tomatoes. “You could use some food! There is jello in the fridge” These small acts of kindness fostered a strong sense of connection, something that often felt lacking in more urban environments that I have lived in.  Most rather be left alone to live the lives yet in the country most days were without people unless if was school or family.  So it was almost like mini-christmases when several would end up at someone's house. Everyone eager to catch up and check in with each other. 

I often helped out with chores. It was tending to our chickens and goats, or assisting neighbors with their gardens and watchingvthe men working on repairs. “Hey, can you hold this for me?” Mr. Autry would ask as I would stand by while the men worked together on a truck. Mrs. Simpson in her garden and I was usually helping with weeding or her hands deftly weaving new vines into her trellis. These tasks kept me busy and allowed me to bond with my neighbors. They would share gardening tips or family recipes, imparting knowledge that felt like a rite of passage. Their patience and gentle guidance taught me skills that I still cherish today.

There were challenges too. At times, I felt isolated, surrounded by seniors who had different interests and lifestyles. While they shared their wisdom, I craved the energy and camaraderie of peers my age but I had little in common with my peers. It sometimes felt like I was straddling two worlds—the youthful curiosity that drove me to explore and the serene, stable existence offered by my neighbors.

Walking towards the end of a long residential street of mornings for school I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. This was one of the few times we kids would gather, a rare moment of camaraderie amidst our otherwise solitary lives. The sun hung over the eastern mountains in the sky, casting long shadows and painting the desert landscape in warm hues as it rose

As I approached the small clearing near the blacktop roaf where we usually met, I could see the other kids already gathered, their laughter and chatter filling the air. “Did you see the new episode of that show?” one of them exclaimed, eyes wide with excitement. “I can’t believe what happened!” They were a lively bunch, animated by stories of the latest TV shows, city life, and the ever-changing trends in fashion. It was a world I didn’t quite fit into. While they debated the merits of popular bands and the latest episodes of their favorite series, I mostly just listened, absorbing their words like a sponge. My mind was more interested in days of long ago, the working of the farms, gardens and livestock. Chasing my dogs around our front yard which mom with her green thumb had become an oasis with green trees, flowers shrubs, a small pond filled during summer with bees, dragonflies and random lizards and beetles seeking shelter from the zenith of summers heat. 

"I’m going to wear the coolest outfit to school next week!” another kid declared, twirling around to show off a new shirt. Their lives seemed vibrant and full of energy, filled with dreams of what lay beyond our rural existence. I often felt like an outsider, not because I didn’t want to engage, but because my interests diverged from theirs. I found more joy in the simplicity of our surroundings—caring for the chickens, milking the goats, and exploring the arid desert that stretched beyond our homes. I just was an outsider even with those who were extroverted enough to pull me from my shell to join in on games or topics that I could participate in. 

As they talked animatedly about shopping trips and school dances, I would nod along, sometimes adding a quiet observation about the beauty of a sunrise, to the heat already filling the air or the thrill of discovering a new trail in the desert. My perspective was different, shaped by the stories of my senior neighbors and the lessons of nature.

Yet, in those moments, I realized that listening had its own value. I learned about the hopes and dreams of my peers, the challenges they faced, and the joys they celebrated. “What do you think is the best part about living here?” one of them asked, genuine curiosity in their eyes. I thought for a moment and replied, “Honestly? The sunrises. And knowing everyone around me. It feels like one home and family.” It was a window into a world that, while foreign to me, held its own kind of magic. Despite our differences, there was a shared bond in those gathering, a connection forged through laughter and the simple act of being together.

As I grew older, I began to appreciate the lessons learned from this unique upbringing. The values instilled in me from respect for nature, the importance of community, and to the understanding that every person has a story and their own journey became foundational in my life. Now, looking back, I realize that growing up in a rural area with mostly senior neighbors was a gift. It shaped my perspective and helped me cultivate a deep appreciation for the richness of life’s experiences, no matter the age of those around me.