Martha C. Lawrence
I stood on the terrace of my childhood home looking out across a postcard-perfect landscape. Smoky-blue foothills rolled across the eastern horizon. A soft breeze carried the sweet perfume of a dozen acres of blossoming orange trees. Honeybees made a fuzzy murmuring in the purple bed of ice plant at my feet. Together with the warm, fragrant air, their buzzing lulled me into a hypnotic half-dream. A thoroughbred mare called to her colt, her whinny clear but faint across the valley.
It was picturesque all right. The spitting image of prosperity and tranquillity. So when