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Showing posts from September, 2011

Gone Fishing

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Fishing down at the creek consisted of either a bamboo pole or very long stick with string and at the end of the string a safety pin left wide open in order to hook-something. I don't think we'd ever seen an actual fish in the murky water that flowed behind the four houses in a row but that didn't matter when you are determined fishermen-and we were determined. Either casting our string while surrounded by creek grass standing on the shoreline or casting while standing on the edge of the rickety plank bridge that connected the backfields, we tried with all our might to get that string as far out into the creek as we could. Usually it ended up tangled in weeds or right back next to us. Determined we remained; excited by the old cans we'd catch or masses of guck and goo. We never did catch a fish but we sure had lots of fun trying and that's what it's all about when your a little kid playing in the country.

Hair Combs

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In the evening my grandmother would sit in her rocking chair by the front window surrounded by African Violets and Geraniums and slowly take the combs out of her waist-length hair. As she'd talk she'd pull the combs through her grey locks. There was something reassuring watching my grandmother do this; sitting there surrounded outside by the acres she and my grandfather had farmed for years. She represented tradition. She spoke for those who came before us; sharing their stories so we'd be able to share them with future generations. We'd hear about her days of living in the farmhouse with six daughters, parents, and a hard-working husband who in the evening would chew tobacco as he sat in the front parlor and read. We'd hear about the barn and favorite horses and bringing the hay in from the back fields. When she was finished combing her hair she would put the combs in her lap and gather the hair together in a ponytail. Then she'd do a few twists, pulling the

Carrot Picnics

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My grandparents had a few gardens but the one I remember most spread alongside the farmhouse. Being a kid I can't remember who cleared and worked the field in early spring or who planted the field later on but I do remember sitting with my cousin amongst the rows of carrots in that field-and eating as many of them as we could. I have no clue how long we sat there or how many times we sat there. Nothing like that mattered. I just knew every time we did sit in the carrot patch, great fun and a delicious meal were seconds away. If we pulled on a carrot and the top broke lose leaving the carrot in the ground, we'd dig deep into the soil all around it with our fingers and patiently free that carrot for our quick consumption. There were no hoses to clean the vegetables off back then but even if there had been we wouldn't have taken time to use them. You see, we firmly believed a fresh, vibrant carrot coming out from the soil was about the best tasting experience to be had when

The Yellow School Bus

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Despite believing with my whole heart that Summer would never end when growing up in the country, September brought reality with the return of the yellow school bus. After what felt like a century-long time lapse devoted to playing down at the creek-pretending and swinging on the rope with its big knot-going out and around and over the creek and sometimes in it and riding on telephone pole rafts off on great adventures from one bank of that sucker-filled creek to the other; climbing into the hay lofts of our grandfather's old barn and walking across the rickety, wooden planks going from one hayloft to the other; spending hours day after day in our chicken coop clubhouse pretending, creating, reading, writing,and producing great circuses and art shows which the adults, I am sure, loved attending-it happened-that yellow school bus was once again coming around the bend of the road to pick us up and take us back to that other world we'd left behind so very long ago. Riding daily