Location Unknown - I was only "knee high to a grasshopper," as my uncle would say, when Mom and I first walked to town.
 
"Here, come look at these," she said, bending down a branch of soft, grey, pussy willows so I could touch them.
 
I was so intrigued she had to break off a twig for me to carry to coax me away.
 
I toddled on, fascinated by the world around me.
 
Occasionally a fat toad hopped along in my direction, or I in his.
 
Mom paused and waited for me to catch up with her.
 
I stopped again a few steps farther, squatting down to examine at close range the tiny anthills that dotted the roadway, single holes surrounded by perfect circles of sand.
 
By now we were near the railway crossing and Mom pointed out the railway pump house at the edge of town.
 
Although a mile distant, it seemed far, far away, too far to walk.
 
I sat down on the rails to rest while Mom patiently waited.
 
Slowly, very slowly, she started walking toward town again, and I tagged along, now on one rail, now on the other, now on the railway ties, now on the cinders.
 
When next I looked, the pump house was near enough to resemble a maroon and cream teapot with a giant spout, a spout that could pour water into the steam locomotive that travelled on these very tracks.
 
The village was now in view.
 
Just a few more steps and we would be at the familiar Red and White store with its tempting display of penny candy and soda pop.
 
But we still had the long walk home.
 
This time, we followed the road that ran parallel to the railway.
 
Instead of ties and cinders, it offered smooth round stones that just fit into the pockets of my pinafore.
 
I would pick one up, exchange it for another, and toss the first one away.
 
I never noticed my mother continually shifting her heavy bag of groceries from one arm to another.
 
I was too busy acquiring a stone collection.
 
And I was getting tired.
 
Mom pointed to the railway crossing.
 
Now half a mile distant, it was far, far, away, too far to walk.
 
I sat down on the edge of the road.
 
Mom reached into a small brown paper bag and handed me a cookie, a store-bought cookie with pink marshmallow on top.
 
She promised me another when we reached the crossing, and another when we turned the corner.
 
The bag was now empty, but her bribes had worked.
 
I could see our big farmhouse under the elm trees and my friendly collie dog galloping down the lane to welcome us home.
 
It had been a long, long, trip, the first of many down that familiar road.
 
Many years later Mom and I reminisced about those days.
 
"Let's walk that stretch of road again," I said.
 
"This time the cookies will be on me."
 
She laughed, and then we both grew quiet.
 
Mentally retracing our steps, we realized that time had erased our landmarks.
 
The pump house was gone, the railway torn up, and the dirt road gravelled.
 
The last tiger lily had long since bloomed along the abandoned right-of-way, and the pincherry and saskatoon bushes had been destroyed by bulldozers as they cleared the land.
 
For many years, the old farmhouse had looked out upon the changing landscape with vacant expression before it, too, succumbed to the ravages of time.
 
The painful reality touched us both, and we knew, without saying a word, that some things are better left untried.
 
Mom and I would never walk to town again, yet the experiences of childhood had set my feet in the direction I ought to go.
 
Alma Barkman.