Lyndon

Lyndon is a small town just south of the Pomona Lake Project. We saw many homes there -- some old, some new. Matt loved that the water tower had a tiger's paw instead of an "O."

The town has a clear agricultural heritage; it is surrounded by wheat fields and cow pastures, and many yards have chickens in them. The houses were neatly painted and the yards were well-kept.

Downtown Lyndon is charming and well-populated with businesses, a county courthouse, and a city hall.

The kids and I took advantage of the unseasonably warm January afternoon to play in the park while Mom checked out a boutique and a consignment sale down the street.

The park is clean and well-maintained, though the dirt driveway was a bit muddy because of recently melted snow. At the edge of the park, there's a territorial-era house (the Wells P. Bailey House). When Myrick heard that Laura and Mary Ingalls probably lived in a home like this one, he insisted on running around it and howling like a wolf to terrorize its occupants. I can only hope they were not home, or they surely would have been frightened out of their wits.

Baby Madelynne and I took to the dead brown turf on a little hillside -- I to enjoy the sun and she to master the art of grass-crawling.

It was as perfect a January day as one could hope for. The sun's insistent warmth was tempered by the chill of the earth under my elbow, as well as a light breeze. It smelled of damp prairie earth and dead grass. In the bare trees, chickadees, sparrows, and cardinals sang sweet celebratory songs about spring's imminent return.

Other than having to occasionally fend off a six-month-old's attempts to eat my notebook, I hadn't a care. But then Myrick needed the restroom, so I got up and resumed my role as responsible parent.