Wind swept prairie lands where gigantic wind turbines rule and put their stamp on our day. My goal is to deliver gifts to the newest member of the family.

Bright sunlight filters through car windows to create an interior like a warm cocoon. I am rudely brought to reality when I step from the cozy space. Cold brushes across bare arms in a brazen way.

"Too cold for me," I mutter. Back in the car I go.

Rhonda and I stay there while my daughter and friend wander about on the road in front of what is the ruin of the Strike Ax place. Only the cement of the cellar and the back ledge of the porch remains. Nothing but a barbed wire fence is stretched along the road in front, the wire is pulled apart as if someone has stepped through.

"People with metal detectors probably," I comment. "If only folks knew how frugal we lived between cattle sales," I thought out loud.

"Rattle snakes every under rock!" I warn nervously.

Another strange phenomenon greats us in front the old ranch property. An oil well's popping motor echos and booms off of Dad's stone wall.

"That would drive you crazy," my friend observes.

"Yea, well, they could put a muffler on it," I say.

"Sure is weird to hear that echo off Grandpa's old stone wall," my daughter said.

It was an eerie ghostly sound as if spirits of yesterday are claiming their ownership and authority.

At this we are ready to drive back to our own place in Ponca City, Oklahoma, where prairie winds are less and no blades of stories high windmills loom overhead.