Once upon a time, when I was very young, my mother, father, three sisters and I lived out in the country in Western New York.  At the time I took it for granted and wanted to live in the city where there were millions of people and everything was hectic and booming.  Now that I've gotten older and have experienced the chaotic urban life, my mind travels back in time to that special place I consider my own personal sanctuary.

In early morning, when the sky would get its first light of the day, birds began to speak with one another in their harmonious language, lulling the world awake with their universal song.  Dew sparkled from every blade of soft, sweet smelling grass, every flower dressed in its brilliant petals, and each individual leaf on the infant trees born in spring.  A translucent cloud of fog rose from the swampy section of the fields where cattails swayed with the passing water of the creek.  Deer came out at the edge of the still, dark woods to get a cold sip of water, casting nervous glances at every sound.  Snorting and rustling came from inside the dilapidated barn where, soon to be free of their restricting stalls, the hungry horses waited for breakfast.  Mooing and eating to their contentment, brown, white, and black splotched cows, some with sweet, innocent eyed calves suckling, milled in the field behind the rusty, broken-down barbed wire fence.  How peaceful and beautiful it all was in the morning, like finding oneself in a dream about heaven.

As the sun's fiery rays began to peek over the shaded hills in the distance, the rest of the world slowly awoke.  June bugs hidden deep in the grass made a high-pitched burring sound as the moist ground began to warm.  Tractor engines cranked to life for another day's work of plowing, cultivating, and pulling.  Milkweed began to burst open and spread their feathery seeds on the breeze.  Dogs barked as the nervous naying horses and baahing sheep were let loose from the barns and into their beloved fields of freedom.  Cats and their little ones mewed in the barn for something to drink from that morning's milking.  A stagnant plume of dust followed each car that passed by on the old dirt road.  In a nearby tree, a squirrel chattered angrily at a trespassing farmer picking ripe fruit and another scolded a bird for resting on its particular branch.  The sweet, yet musty, smell of corn wafted from the green husks that wrapped protective arms around the young gold and white kernels.  The day was an orchestra of natural sounds, smells, and sights.

When the moon and stars showed themselves in the sky and the day shut its sleepy eyes, the land quieted down once more.  Only the nocturnes could be seen or heard.  Bright-eyed owls, with the help of the moon's illumination, searched for small, helpless victims in the fields.  Crickets began to sing the song of night, and soon the old bullfrogs that lived deep in the long grasses near the old swamp joined in.  The earth cooled down and the misty fog returned once again to cover the land with moisture.  Heat lightning traveled across the sky, lighting one cloud at a time, as if the angels in heaven were playing their own version of the Simon game.  At night, in the country, there was always a free light show and music to go with it.

As time goes on, I think of my old home more and more.  Whenever I hear the sound of the crickets at night, I close my eyes and imagine sitting in a field.  Unfortunately, the smell of pollution and the blaring sounds of cars, horns, sirens, and stereos brings me back to an unpleasant reality.  Sometimes I wonder why I ever took my home for granted but I was very young back then and didn't yet understand things.  I guess that's why someone once said, "You don't know what you've got until it's gone."  Fortunately, I will always have that place of refuge in my memory and can go back and visit whenever I wish.