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| 怀念童年时那些魂牵萦绕的夏日时光啊—— 那清晨徐徐的微风，那硕果累累的果园，那遍地的野花，那池塘的蛙声…… I had a really neat childhood. My brothers and I went to school in the city, but nearly every weekend, plus holidays and summers, were spent on our beloved grandparents?farm. In the city, I learned to be quite the little lady. But, on the farm, I could just BE. So, I had the best of both worlds. It’s those summers I’ve been flashing back1) to lately. I have NO idea why! Maybe I’m worn-out2). Maybe it’s one of those, “Stop the world, I wanna get off,” things. Maybe we just work too hard and forget to relax and enjoy. Or, maybe we誶e not ALLOWED to relax and enjoy anymore. Now, I know everyone didn’t get to spend childhood summers in the country. But, I wonder how many folks remember things like this... Waking up, just past dawn, to the cool, morning breeze gently lifting the white, “summer curtains” in the bedroom, listening to the quail3) give their “Bob White!” call, then heading to the kitchen to gobble4) the cold oats5) left for us by Pappy6) Lee (our grandfather) when he went to the barn to feed the animals. Or, on days when we woke up early, having Pappy make us buckwheat7) pancakes, topped with pure butter and homemade sorghum8) syrup9), made as only he could make it. Racing to the barn behind him, dogs at our heels, to help “feed” and check on any new arrivals, and see if the (harmless) bull snake, kept for controlling the mouse population, had shed its skin. Then, back to the hen house to gather eggs. And, maybe watch Pappy kill and dress a hen, carefully removing any unlaid eggs, to be boiled up with the chicken and homemade noodles for supper (called “dinner” in the city) that evening. Helping Nonny (our grandmother) bake pies “from scratch10),” — using LARD11) — while the morning was still cool enough to turn the oven on — where the leftover dough was shaped with a chicken-shaped cookie cutter, sprinkled12) with sugar and cinnamon13), with a “red-hot14),” for an eye, and baked to make the very BEST cookies in the entire world. Lying in the grass, watching cumulous15) clouds lazily making perfect shapes of animals and other things as they floated by. Or, hiding out under the young Weeping Willow tree, staring up at the leaves, and fantasizing16) what life would be like when we “grew up.” Running through the orchard, picking fruit off the trees, wiping it off on our clothes, and eating it on the spot, without concern for washing off any pesticides17). Or, snatching strawberries from the patch, or grapes from the vines as we passed by, and it was okay to do that. Picking flowers from the flower beds, taking them to the house, and washing the ants off them in the sink before sticking them into a Ball fruit jar, where they presided over the kitchen table with the oil cloth cover, and the mean cat that would reach out from another chair and swat18) our bare, brown legs with her claws extended, if we dared to sit down without looking. Swinging on the tire swing, hung from the huge, old Cottonwood tree in the barn yard, that lightning struck at least once every year. |
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