It is like the boogeyman in the bushes waiting to jump out and grab me. Or the ring of the telephone in a silent house. It is that car stopping too suddenly in front of you or the mouse scurrying across your floor. Or perhaps, it is just a connection of synapses, some biochemical response to stimulation. All I know is that this giant of La Mancha lurks in the open summer fields and little towns of no name that dot the often forgotten highways of my childhood. When the sun is sinking low on the horizon and the families go in for dinner while the deer and the mosquitos come out to play, this is when the beast of nostalgia reigns.
And I can't put my finger on exactly what it is, but the windmills in their fields stretched out as they are in organized rows all gyrating to the same breeze, speak of all things past, present and future. The land of our forefathers which belonged to the trees before them, now crisscrossed with the endless mega farms, the state in which I will forever recognize this place. But a new crop is blooming, one to feed the mouths of the next generation. The people of tomorrow will dine on wind.
Those that pass through my homeland, when headed to one coast or another, often complain that this country is lackluster. They say there is nothing to look at and the flat roads that run straight forever and ever hardly encourage ballads of adventure. Perhaps I am biased but I would have to disagree. While there might be a lack of geographic upheaval, misty mountains, and crashing waves, one must not be soft when traveling through this land. Fore there are giants here waiting.