Memories

A wonderful, cool morning. It’s great to have a pleasant summer, and a pleasant August. I remember August days when I was a child. I remember running barefoot through tickly grass, walking through dusty places and feeling warm dust puff up between my toes, dancing quickly over rocks that were too hot for lingering.  Summers seemed to be hotter but I didn’t mind. It was the way it was supposed to be. Of course, if we had a drought, we were concerned about that. The water in the pond would get low for the cows and horse, but the well never failed. We had an unending supply of cold, fresh water straight from deep beneath the ground.

I remember hollyhocks by the well curb, morning glories by the window. Spreading an old quilt on the ground and looking up at the sky was a favorite way to spend a hot summer afternoon, after the morning chores were finished. Green tree leaves made lacy patterns against a blue, blue sky. Lazy white clouds wandered across the heavens, long-necked giraffes, puffy, white elephants, in no hurry to go anywhere, traveling with the breeze. It was a time for dreaming.

This all seems so long ago, just memories. Yet, if I close my eyes and think about times past, I am there. I taste that drink of cold well water, feel the rocks under my feet, and smell the warm, green scent of summer. I hear Chappo the horse snort as he trots out to pasture, and the cows plod up from the barn. I hear Mom whistling as she works in the kitchen. Memories, all just wispy fragments of the past, but as real as today. They are as much a part of me as is breathing.