Summer is long past, or so it seems as I look out the
window at the fallen leaves blowing around my yard. If the sun comes out and
the weather is just right, we might have a few warm days left, but the nights
will be just plain cold. There will be frost on the pumpkin each morning.
Yet last week, when I took one of my few last walks
around my hometown, even though the temperature was comfortable but certainly
not warm, I was reminded of the hot summer days of my youth.
Because we lived in the country, summers were three long months
of doing house-work as quickly as we could in the morning and then spending the
afternoons and evenings outside, climbing trees, building forts, digging up
make-believe treasure chests in the woods. And for me and my sister Pat, it
meant very little time spent with other kids our ages.
Except for the Fourth of July. Somehow we always managed
to get into town in time for the parade. After the parade, we went to the small
carnival at the west end of main street and rode on as many rides as our
limited money would buy. One year I rode
the tilt-a-whirl too many times in a row and threw up all over the street. Not my
finest hour.
As the afternoon began to wane, Pat, I and whatever
friends we were able to connect with would wind our way to Memorial Park for
the ski show. Only one time as a kid did I get to sit on the bleachers on the
north side of the river, instead we always plopped down on a patch of grass (on
a blanket if someone was prepared enough to bring one).
Because I can’t swim, much less waterski, those
performers on the water seemed almost magical to me. Then, usually right after
intermission, when it was getting dark enough that they turned the lights on
over the water, the boat would come barreling down the river towing a skier who
was airborne. Strapped into a kite, he flew like a bird above the water,
dipping and banking. Then just as he passed in front of the bleachers, he would
veer towards the pine tree which leaned out across the river. If he was lucky
and knew what he was doing, his skis would shoot between the branches of the
tree and he would come out unscathed.
And that, dear friends, is what this stump means to me.
1 comment:
This brings back some memories of my own! Fun fun!! Thanks for sharing Chris!
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