Frosty potatoes is what mom would say on mornings like these, coffee mug in hand as she took us to the bus stop in highway 51. It'd be dark, perhaps raining, before seven am, the rural bus route bumping down dirt roads in the opposite direction of school and town. We'd had another breakfast made from scratch, eggs and sausage, toasted homemade bread. Perhaps an omelet or french toast, homemade donuts. Maybe fried potatoes, hash browns, or latkes; potato pancakes. Off to Highland Park for me and Grant. She'd be in her books, or off to the University, just a building away from where Dad taught painting and drawing. Once or twice a week I'd go from elementary class to an hour of private violin lessons from Mr Muller, or subsequent teachers with more patience. I had to practice at home a half hour a day, set by the dual timer on the oven in our small kitchen overlooking our 3 acre home. A martin birdhouse high in a steel pole, the seemingly huge sycamore with a father built treehouse, open mowed grass that accommodated football matches with friends. When it rained in the summer, we streaked around naked, it was that private. That was prior to school age. We were free to roam the countryside. Fences meant little to nothing for the most part. Dirt roads were where brother and I broke out our bikes . We weren't allowed to ride in the highway. We got another piece of land when I was ten. We called it The Land, but it had a 7 acre pond. It'd freeze hard and thick and was good for hockey with a crushed can puck and just the right stick. Everything frosty. We cut our own trees for Xmas every year, had a bonfire for it mid January or February. Years passed. A life passed. The steam passed and became bird breath, bug and coyote stuffing. Mom'd tuck us in, do creep mouse. It was all poetry and music and watching birds feast from our wood heated home.