Summer has always been my favorite time of year, ever since I was a little girl. Summer to me was freedom from a long winter of being cooped up in the house, or bundled up in about 20 pounds of clothing if we did get to go outside. Not that we didn't have fun in the winter time, but summer was just better.
The little story that follows is one I wrote a few years back for a class I was taking, and I think it is fitting to print it now that summer has once again shaken the snowflakes out of her hair and graced us with her glorious presence.
When I was about 10 years old, my mom decided I was old enough to walk alone down our dusty dirt road to my grandma's house, about a mile away. This shouldn't have taken more than 20 minutes, but I seldom arrived in less than an hour.
As soon as I stepped out my back door, the summer heat wrapped around me like a glove and I knew I would have to stop by the meandering creek that curved in close to the road just a few yards from my house. To get to the water, I had to negotiate a sagging, rusty, barbed-wire fence. I would breathe out all my breath to make myself smaller and squeeze through, expecting any moment to feel the sharp, pointed barbs tear into the soft skin of my back; but the breath-holding trick must have worked because it never happened.
As soon as I was through the fence, off came my torn, used-to-be white sneakers and into the creek I would plunge. It was just over ankle deep here, and so cold it took my breath away. But it felt so good on my hot dusty feet and I could hear the water gurgle and chuckle as it flowed over the smooth, slick stones of the creek bed. Ahh, what peace! The soft summer breeze gently kissed my cheek as I held my face up to the hot sun, and the contrast between cold feet and hot face was wonderful!
I would then wade down to where the trees made a green, leafy canopy over my head and dappled the water with shade. Bright silvery minnows flitted from spot to spot, fleeing quickly from the threat of my bare legs. I would try my luck at catching a crawdad or two, being careful not to get a sharp pinch from their powerful claws. By this time, my poor feet would be numb, so back through the fence and on toward Grandma's house I would go.
Just up the road from the creek was a splendid little blackberry patch, and I could not resist a quick stop there to sample some of the juicy purple berries. Most were ripe and sweet, but now and then I would get one that was so sour it made my mouth pucker. So now, with violet stains on chin, shirt and hands, I would again start off toward Grandma's house.
Yellow and white daisies and pink wild roses grew beside the road, so I would stop and pick a nice bouquet, dodging the buzzing honey-bees as they gathered sweet nectar for their hive. My attention would often be caught by a meadowlark perched on a rotting wooden fence post. His bright yellow breast and black-striped throat puffed out as he sang a beautiful lilting song just for me.
Next, I would pass the pond. I always stopped to count the turtles that were sunning themselves on fallen logs. This might take a while, so I would find a stump close by and just sit for a spell, counting those turtles, and watching iridescent dragonflies float on the breeze. Then, reluctantly, I would tear myself away and start back down the road.
Soon I could smell the warm cinnamon cookies that Grandma had just taken out of the little coal-oil stove in her kitchen. She would be sitting in the old cane rocker on her sagging front porch as I came walking up the driveway, a little wet and berry stained, and with a handful of bedraggled wildflowers.
She would look at me, shake her head and ask, "What took you so long, child?"
And I would always reply, "But Grandma, I hurried as fast as I could!"
I hope you enjoyed the read, and I hope you all have a berry-stained, creek-wading, turtle-counting summer! And don't stop remembering!
Tamela Weeks is a freelance writer in the Gentry area. She may be reached by email at tamela.weeks@ gmail.com. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 07/16/2014