A few days ago I didn't have time to tell you that I passed by the first house I ever lived in. It's in Cheyenne, Wyoming and is surrounded by a gate that my father built. One of my first memories is of my father watching a tornado, wondering if it was going to digest the fence.
When I graduated from college, some friends and I took a road trip from Denver to Seattle. I happened to be driving while we passed through Cheyenne, my first time back since I was three years old. The landscape is truly lovely, windy, flat yet hilly, dry yet grassy, thundery. Just as I was basking in the open spaces, the beckoning frontier, just as I was imaging myself wearing dust-coated jeans everyday and carrying a sheep over my shoulders, two men in a beat up truck drove up next to us. I was probably telling my friends what a great town I was born in when one of these men hung out of his window, parted two of his fingers into a V, and commenced flapping his tongue between his two fingers, cunnilingus style.
My friends said that something about my personality was explained that day, but I think it's rather generous that he offered such a tremendous service to three traveling women. Did he know that he was propositioning a former local? There's a photo of me, after all, hanging in a bar that may or may not still exist. I was a baby, playing with a can of beer.