Look. Highway 1 for only a few miles. The Pacific. Mendocino. Roads that won't stop curving. Redwoods. Second growth. Huge hollowing mossy wet trunks all that remain of the elders.

This place, California. This Okie—me—finally showing up there. Long after the dust pushed some of us all the way to that golden land. Now, with the windbreak trees growing old on the Oklahoma prairies and myself growing old in the Northeastern hills.

All these first looks merging with the good-byes to my son, my niece, my sister and brother-in-law.

It is too early now to gather images and memories of that special dinner, the driving, the relentless acupuncture of the vine on the rolling breast of earth, the sampling of the scotch—the peaty and the sweet. The constant reminders of food and earth, food and earth. The past and future pulling and marking the hours. The saying good-bye. The sun after rain. The sharp turn in the road. The speed. The slow turnings. The change in direction.