Warmly welcoming each of us to the vast playground that was The Hill, Mom and Dad would make homemade vanilla ice cream in their ancient electric maker, salt water dripping from the little hole, our ears attuned to the strain of the motor.
Dad barbecued and smoked tasty meats on a tiny but highly functional gas barbecue. He cut juicy watermelons into drippy wedges, rinds eventually thrown over the decking fence for cattle and deer.
Mom kept the pool crystal clear and clean, the skimmer and her bathing cap always near at hand.
Family came from far and wide to spend a good weekend together goofing off and telling stories. The kids rode motorcycles, gathered eggs, fed turkeys, played pool, shot guns, swam, played with cousins, and picked blackberries.
I still hear the unrestrained laughter, the frogs, and the crickets, smell the roses and irises, taste the potluck offerings each family cheerfully produced, see the bats swooping in the evening sky, feel the thrill of sliding or diving or jumping into the pool, recollect the energy in my kids' little bodies as I teach them to swim and to see and hear life in the country.
The hot air smelled of crispy dry grass. Electrical storms were frequent and exciting overhead, their release of delicious summer rain relaxed and brought smiles to already happy faces.
I hope the times spent here in Tom's and my home with our family are the type that bring joy to my loved ones in years to come. It's a lovely, comforting thing to remember goodness.
I ache for my parents, but more than that I am so grateful they were, indeed, mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment