Years of storms had taken their toll on the old windmill. Its wheel, rusted and fallen, lay silent in the lush bluegrass. Its once animated silhouette was now a tall motionless steeple in the twilight sun. I hadn‘t walked across our old farm in fifteen years. Yet the sensations came flooding back. I could smell the freshness of new mown alfalfa. I could feel the ping of the ice cold summer rain, and the sun‘s sudden warmth on my wet shoulders when it reappeared after a brisk July thunderstorm...