Summertime in Vermont

This was written at least six years ago after an elderly friend of the family visited for two days and told me with much disdain that: "children thrive on routine, you know." It is supposed to be in some form of poem fashion (I don't usually even read poetry much less write it) but when it appears on the blog it's all smushed together. Forgive me. * * * I re-read this with sadness, as the bowling alley closed this summer, the drive-in is probably on its way out since the new Walmart went up directly across the street with all the lights and traffic. The grandparents are still there, rattling around in their old farm house but the cows are gone and the hayfields are growing over with weeds. Time is fleeting and family is precious. * * * * * * * * * * SUMMER TIME IN VERMONT by Gillian Ireland ******************* Summertime is a time of beauty; a time when chaos reigns,  routine is banished and bedtimes are  ignored, and when dirt and sweat intermingle. Adventure becomes the word of the day. Kids are brought home, tired and happy from the folk festival or campfire and put to bed with dirty feet from dancing in the mud,  or smelling of wood smoke. That's okay, they'll jump in the swimming hole tomorrow. Or maybe they'll flood the sandbox again.  I'll wash the sheets  before the summer's out. Six kids overpower the car radio by chanting "Beach! Beach!" when the driver comments on the impending rain.  But she mentions bowling under her breath and the chants change to "Bow-ling!  Bow-ling!"  - Kids are so fickle. I should wash the kitchen floor instead. Nah, not on a rainy day. It would be covered in mud in an hour. Lazy days spent in the hammock with a book or hours spent in the sandbox. Gotta tell the middle child to get off the computer and go outside while I hide near the new air conditioner and clean the living room. Summertime is a bad time for frogs.  They are caught several times over, stuffed in a jar and stared at by  the not-so-innocent eyes of their young captors. Not to mention run over on  rainy nights. I always think of the frog families on those nights.  Do they pace (hop) and worry when Freddy hasn't made it home yet? When I query the kids about this, they just say "OH MOM!" Summer means haying old-time style.  Romantic memories quickly turn to hard, sweaty work and longing for the end-of-the-day plunge in the swimming hole – if there's time. The vicarious joy (and slight fear) of the kids riding atop the wagon can't be manufactured by any company, by any means. Cousins arrive from the west coast. The attic and woodshed are pillaged. Small fingers comb piles of artifacts – a bear trap; an old horseshoe - and there is talk of making money at the Antiques Road Show. Every tree is climbed, feet are muddied in the pond, and flashlight tag competes with the fireflies. Everyone's too tired for a bonfire. Maybe tomorrow night. The kids are corralled by Grandma  to help pick gooseberries, which are miserable to pick and not tasty, except in jam, which the kids don't always like. I hope to goodness that my kids are too polite to refuse. They'd rather play in the attic with the treasures, no matter how hot it gets. Dinner at the farm brings stories of the war, when Grandpa had to dive behind the couch when the bombs came and the next day the school windows were blown out.  The audience's eyes are wide.  Grandma tells the story about when mommy was chased by the bull. Later Grandma enlists volunteers to march with her peace group in the parade.  Hands go up. I wonder if we'll make it to the drive-in this year Summer is too short