The sandhills, North of Paxton, served as our playground for several years. Those years, in some ways, were our healing years. Mom had whisked us out of Colorado and away from that seven year nightmare and we could breathe and our fears began to subside. We bunked for a short time with Mom's folks and then moved next door to a wee little home. Our three room house was small, cramped and we had some rip, roaring fights but oh, what fun! Poor, no T.V., not much for possessions but we had each other. And we had the sandhills!
We only had to go two blocks to the North...just past the Ronje's house, up into the hills we'd hike. Mark and Carl often hiked all over Windy Gap, further into the sandhills than most cared to go, or would just follow the canal for miles. They would often disappear when it was chore time or when they were in some kind of trouble. That's just what those sandhills were for! A haven for most of the town kids, who would scramble all over those hills, dodging rattlers and playing like we were wild horses or wild Indians or war...since the Vietnam war was on everyone's mind back then and President Kennedy had been assassinated not long after moving to Paxton.
We moved from that three roomed house (kitchen, bath, and big room we used for living room and bedroom) and lived for a few months across the street from the Luthern Church and only 1 block from the sandhills! With our first dog, Flip, and a few new Paxton friends, a trek up North was a weekly, sometimes, daily event. Those were some of our best times as kids...and so it makes sense that this is where Mark came to rest.
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