Summer

The Summer of my Childhood


Get up! The cows are out! The cows are out!
So much for my stolen solitude; hidden in the recesses of the farm house or the hay loft. A few golden, precious minutes... gone for today.

We all run out like firemen to a rescue, responding to the air of emergency, jumping into our boots, although complaining and groaning. Snapped to attention and organized for the event ahead. The cows are out!

Back when I was seven, when haying was a glorious, fun-filled experience. Riding on top of the wagon, when it was new – watching the strapping sixteen-year-old hired boys, muscles glistening under a sheen of sweat and hay seeds. When I was sixteen myself, and able to heft a bale to the top of the wagon, the hired boys long gone, the job of haying less a romantic venture and just sheer, hard work.

Most of the time, hay fever kept me out of the fields and in the kitchen – relief- although not so much. Picking and freezing broccoli, miles of it spread along the counter. Sometimes the neighbors stopped on their way down the hill and took us off to the pool, my mother reluctantly letting us go. By brother, seething, and rightfully so, watched from the tractor seat as we sped away in the neighbor's Volkswagen bus. We paid later in blood, sweat and tears.
Long days, long hours, lots of complaining, followed by a precious half-hour at the swimming hole before dinner – if the work was done in time. More stolen solitude, sometimes with a book at the top of a tree or the barn roof, always waiting, waiting for my name to be called for one chore or another.

Anne of Green Gables my most negative influence, along with Pipi Longstocking. Anne inspired me to walk the ridge-pole, Pippi to pick up our pony (at least I am told).
Ah, the pony. The wild little pony who used to take me galloping up the road and throw me off on the way back down. Later I learned always to walk down and run up.

My sister and I used to put on old dresses and pretend to be the Ingalls girls, running by the banks of the creek, and driving our wagon which was a large gray rock.

When weeding the garden or scrubbing oven racks, she and I used to pretend we were indentured servants, my mother the domineering land owner.