Each night in my dreams do I stray, back to a place far away. Back to a place in those Idaho hills, back to a place where my memory steals. Sigh’n breeze, in the trees, log cabin memories.
When I was small, pre-school small, I lived a summer with my grandfather. He would sing me to sleep with the song above. I would lay in a huge bed, the moonlight filtering through a nearby window competing with the perfume of lilac, as the window was open. Moonlight, lilac scent, and that song is the strongest memory of my early childhood.
I grew, my grandfather died, and, when I asked, my father, would sing that song. I continued to grow, I stopped asking, and now, the few words above is all I remember. I don’t know the name, I don’t know who wrote it. I know only two things about the music. It forged and everlasting memory in a boy’s mind and that boy carried it with him when he left Idaho just after high school.
Four decades, forty-eight states, five counties later, that song played in my mind as I returned. Idaho air is easier to breathe, her dirt is richer a full of life, her streams are cleaner, her mountains bolder, and best of all, she is home. Home for me.