I wish I could go back to 1970’s summertime, my youth spent on a ten acre homestead farm in Crossville, Tennessee. Times were simpler then, happier. The biggest decision of the day was whether or not to shake a little salt on the watermelon Papaw had just plucked from the garden and Mamaw had sliced open with a big ol’ kitchen knife.
In the shade of a huge oak tree, on a weathered old picnic table clothed by the Sunday funnies, we joyfully ate until we were full. Laughter abounded at all the sticky faces, hands, forearms and elbows as we made our way to the hose pipe to wash off. Drinking ice cold well water out of a warm, green garden hose is my childhood.
It was okay to run barefoot in the yard, ride in the bed of a pick-up truck to the corner store, eat grapes right off the vine and sour apples off the tree. Sometimes, I’d sneak a piece of Papaw’s bitter horehound candy before dinner, which was harvested right out of the garden...corn, cabbage, tomatoes, cucumbers, string beans and potatoes. I hope somewhere, right now, there is a youngster snapping beans with their grandmother. It is a cherished memory for me.
Always, there was catching lightnin’ bugs and sometimes there were sparklers, left over from the family Fourth celebration. Constellations were as bright and vivid as if you were viewing them from inside a planetarium. Papaw would point out the big and little dippers for me because they were the only ones I knew. And finally, sleep. It came easy with the crickets’ song riding waves of cool mountain air through window screens that were never closed.
Focus on the good.
Peace. Love.
