The document describes the author's fond childhood memories of visiting their grandparents' farm, where they would spend hours playing and letting their imagination run wild. As an adult, the author now sees themselves as standing "atop the hill" of life, looking back on their past dreams and adventures from the farm, but also able to continue dreaming and pursuing new goals and destinations. While age brings limitations, it also brings wisdom about one's abilities that can help chart the next course. The author encourages taking chances and maintaining a sense of curiosity and anticipation for what's to come.

1. “Standing atop the hill”
I can still remember it as if it was yesterday. My parents, two older brothers and I would all pile in our
full-size van. The cassette player was twanging some version of country music that, to this day, I still
don't quite understand. We were on our way to my grandparent’s farm. Most of the ride I don’t even
remember, my brain was already speeding through the countless things I could do once we got there.
My grandparent’s lived about fifty “are we there yet’s” from my house. I knew every “checkpoint” as
we got closer, only asking “are we there yet,” just to check to see if my dad had found some new
shortcut or happened to be speeding. The anticipation grew with each checkpoint. When the paved
road gave way to the gravel, the sound of the pebbles popping under the tires and hitting the car, my
heart would start to race. Once the popping turned to the rumble of the wooden bridge, my face would
be permanently planted in the window peering out into the great wide open. As we slowed to turn into
their driveway, the combination of momentum from the van coming to a stop and my excitement of
getting out, would propel me forward into the second row of seats. The van door would fly open. The
sound of "Grandpa, tell me 'bout the good ol' days," would come to an abrupt stop in the cassette player
as the engine would give it’s last knock. The dogs greeted us as everyone gathered things from the van
and I ran to the front door. We made it to the farm. We were there.
My grandparent's farm wasn’t a typical farm. There were no cows, no chickens, no pigs, not even a barn.
It was nothing more than an eight acre plot of land, an old abandoned house, a double-wide mobile
home, a leaning wooden building we called a “garage," four cherry trees, many un-harvested apple and
pear trees, vegetable gardens, a trail, and a muddy river. This was the place I called “the farm” and this
was my happy place. You see, I built my dreams there. I won the World Series with the throw of a
freshly picked, unripe apple from left field to home. I won the Indianapolis 500 on a lawn mowing
tractor sponsored by John Deere at a maximum speed of 4 mph, wearing my grandpa’s over-sized
baseball cap. I played to thousands at the helm of my grandmother’s church organ playing “Jesus Loves
Me,” and “Onward Christian Soldiers.” I wandered the trails of the Amazon Forests in the woods by the
muddy river. I won Olympic medals running the adjacent corn fields, row by row. It was there that my
dreams were bigger than me, bigger than the farm, bigger than the earth I was standing on.
Fast forward thirty some-odd years. "Over the river and through the woods," has turned to "over the
hill" and "been to the woods and back a thousand times." The farm is now a house with land, Grandpa's
tractor is now an SUV, the cherry pie has a label that says "Tippins," and you look forward to a text
message from grandma. You’ve reached an age where your birthday party is filled with black balloons
and black icing, hats that say, “over the hill,” and friends wishing you “good luck,” reminiscing of the
days of old. The World Series of dreams, those Indianapolis 500 dreams, have been left at the farm that
produced them. And you stand at the other side of “the hill,” and think about all the dreams that could
have been.
But standing at the 50 yard line of life doesn't mean you still can't dream. We often think our
opportunities at this stage of life have expired and our chances of doing anything we've dreamed of on
that farm are gone just like the leaning wooden "garage." But I see this as an opportunity gained, not
lost. I like to say, thirty years later, that I am not “over the hill,” but, in fact, standing “atop the hill,” in a

2. perfect position to see everything I want to see. I can look back and see where I’ve been, what got me
there and how I made it. I can choose to go left, right or forward, and most importantly, I can still look
up, still dream and climb any hill that I want. The destinations are endless, the dreams as big as you
want, even as big as the days on the farm.
I also understand that at my age there are limitations to what I can accomplish. I am fully aware that I
would be lucky to hit the cut-off guy trying to throw someone out from left field with an apple or a
baseball. I am well aware that my experience driving a Ford Fiesta, although painted red with tinted
windows, would lend itself to a yellow caution flag than a checkered flag. Practicality now plays a part in
the process, but there's an actuality of accomplishment that I never had as a kid. We know our
strengths, our abilities, and what is afforded to us. What we've learned in the first half of our lives, will
help us choose the next.
So I encourage you, as you stand “atop the hill,” no matter what hill that is, to listen to the popping of
the pebbles, the rumble of the wooden bridge, with your face permanently planted in the window of the
great wide open anticipating what’s to come and propel yourself forward to the next game, the next
race, the next sold out concert or the next adventure. And keep asking at every checkpoint along the
way, "are we there yet?"