It always seemed terribly hot, even was I was younger.
Apple trees provided shade, but bugs came to roost
in the fallen fruit. Pear trees too, scraggly with twined bark
and branch. Hans used to love chasing and retrieving,
ears flopping with a mouthful of fruit seemingly too large
for his own good.
The grass in the front field had a unique texture, part wild
with moss despite efforts of cultivation. This was country—
a remote dead end in Somers. The kitchen had an icebox,
linoleum and chrome furnishings. A steel window fan.
No microwave or television. Not even a toaster.
My grandma jarred apples and peaches, pears and rasberries
from the tended garden. The weathered shed had grandpa's
rusted tools. Hedging shears, screwdrivers with handles
secured by electric tape. Hammers with split shafts. Hack saws
with bent blades. A garden shovel, a frayed lawn rake,
a box of army men.
We hid lawn clippings in the back hedgerow; we parked under
the flowering dogwoods that lined the two-tire path up the property.
We scooped surface leaves out of the full rain barrel, but never drank
the stagnant water. Grandma and Mom had Kool Aid waiting.
Pine trees out front were for hiding, shelter against weekday sun.
There were worlds inside the cones and carpet needles. Hans and I
would sit there for entire summers while grandpa needlessly toiled
and grandma jarred—both uncomfortable with idleness.
I really didn't miss television or radio. I sang to myself when I later
mowed the field: a three-hour concert of Elvis, Simon and Garfunkel,
and Motown's Top 25.
Soon after, the garden became overrun. Cucumbers ripened and rotted away.
Beans weighed down their stalks. Raccoons and rabbits suffered the barbs
of rasberries. Paths between began to fade.
The distance home became shorter, but the two swans at the pond were still there,
as my Mom tried to sing along, late on every word.
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