It's the way you ride the trail that counts.
—Dale Evans

Twilight on the Trail
L. Alter/S. Mitchell, 1936

When it’s twilight on the trail,
And I jog along,
The world is like a dream
And the ripple of the stream is my song . . .

When it’s twilight on the trail,
And I rest once more,
My ceiling is the sky
And the grass on which I lie is my floor . . .

The IF word immediately reminded me of this beautiful old tune, Twilight on the Trail, which lead me down the “trail” to a childhood reminiscence. I grew up on a farm, and while my folks were not farmers, they made sure we were surrounded by all the accoutrements of a working farm; fields of corn, strawberry patches, and lots of animals. I couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 when they acquired a pony from a local family. We already had ponies so I was a pretty proficient rider. I guess someone hadn’t followed the deal all the way through to the point of transporting the pony the two or so miles home, and it was getting late. I had to ride it home bareback, through a little village, over a stream and through rolling pastures by the moonlight. It was a magical experience, my whole life was before me and it was brimming with possibilities.

Here’s a favorite version of this song, as sung by Nat King Cole:

Twilight on the Trail

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