I always knew when we were getting close to grandma’s house. I looked for the big overpass with green steel rails where trains crossed over a two-lane highway. My brother and sister would be playing “king of the hill” in the back seat, pushing each other off the window sill, one being dragged down into the cavernous plush seat of red velvet below while the other stepped over, on legs and backs, to fill the window sill once again. It was lots of fun amidst giggles and smoke. Johnny Cash sang in the background while Mom and Dad resigned to using the side view mirrors to see passing cars. This was the year the monthly trips and life in the city would become a distant memory. Just as quick, as a topple from King of the Hill, did dirt roads, big couches with lots of people, dogs and long bumpy lane ways replace cement side walks, friends with blonde and red hair and taxi cab rides to hospitals. We were moving to a new place, a place my parents called home.