I remember way back when--last day of school, long summer nights and the celebration of summer vacation,
I remember a school year ending, the final hour before the last bell, demanding we finish one last assignment and,
I remember, yet, ignoring the hurried, persistent instruction, our last act of classroom defiance only made the coming of summer vacation all the better earned,
I remember bare feet finally free of school shoes quickly cast into dark closets and left to wait until summer’s end,
I remember the breathless moment of the first bright early mornings, long carefree days, and starry nights filled with the big dipper, lightning bugs and hide and seek,
I remember old Mr. Louis in his usual drunken stupor, staggering down the road, followed by his just as old dog, Twain,
I remember Mr. Louis’ impatient command to his faithful dog, Twain, as the setting sun announced the day’s end,
“Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!”
I remember the first morning of summer vacation, rolling out of bed in heart pounding anticipation,
I remember standing on the front porch, the fresh morning sun on my face and the feel of old weathered wood beneath my feet,
I remember inhaling the sweet smell of grass, dry dirt and honey suckle vines everywhere I turn,
I remember Uncle Gene’s coveted squirrel house and many watchful hours spent staring through the mesh wire into their own private world,
I remember eager hours spent watching wild squirrels doing nothing special, eating walnuts and disappearing into the darkness above their lighted world below,
I remember looking up across the field and seeing Mr. Louis and ole Twain walking on the path towards us, in search of relief for his constant thirst,
“Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!”
I remember the musky, stale smell of my uncle’s hen houses and the pungent aroma of straw, still warm from speckled eggs freshly laid as the hens moved away,
I remember listening carefully as the sound of rats searching for eggs to steal, gave me the willies that they might be too near,
I remember gathered eggs piled in a bucket in my uncle’s kitchen where twenty-five cent whiskey shot glasses filled the hands of old men and the younger wanna be’s,
I remember old Mr. Louis’ dirty shoes on brown linoleum floors of faded patterns and ole Twain waiting outside the door for his master’s voice,
“Twain” Twain! Come on, ole Twain!”
I remember the familiar clinking sound of iron horseshoes, dust and dirt flying, hitting their mark, amid backslapping and contested wins,
I remember the thick smell of cheap cigars, and unfiltered cigarettes hovering over friendly competition and the smell of stale, warm beer belching from their mouths,
I remember old and young men sharing laughter, tall tales and easy living,
I remember the promise of visiting favorite fishing holes, rabbit traps that never worked and chasing pigs across a field to break the boredom,
I remember naps under a large maple tree, lying next to my brothers and sisters,
I remember drifting off to sleep with only the fresh smell of my grandmother’s strawberry patch lingering in the air and the memory of a soft breeze lulling us to sleep,
I remember somewhere in the distance as Mr. Louis leaves my uncle’s house calling out for his trusted, faithful companion,
“Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!”
I remember easily, anticipation swelling inside waiting for the night to end and the first new day of summer vacation to begin,
I remember glorious days filled with June bugs flying off with secret messages to far away places,
I remember colorful cities of soft clay, sand and rocks lovingly built for beetles and grasshoppers, our unappreciative, reluctant boarders,
I remember mason jars, wet sugar and sprinkles of grass on dark, rich soil filled with busy, fat ants burrowing home to a glass bottom prison,
I remember my siblings and cousins’ giggles as ole Mr. Louis begged for a vaccination shot with an ole, rusty nail, then leaving disgruntled and shouting his impatience,
“Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!”
I remember imaginary storefronts and polk leaves used for play money to purchase imaginary goods,
I remember go-carts built with knowing hands, sturdy and true , no blueprints we used,
I remember creeks filled with tadpoles, small fish and spiders hopping dirty water, fleeing hot lazy days,
I remember trash filled water up to our knees, swirling with movement, soft, slimy things unseen, moving beneath each hesitant step,
I remember cautious feet hesitant, stepping blind on sharp rocks, trash and more, water moccasins slithering close by,
I remember hours and hours exploring Flat Creek, barely a foot deep, running its course along poison ivy lined banks, and in the distance horse shoes clinking and another familiar sound,
“Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!
And finally, I remember mid day, sitting on the front porch, the comforting taste of boloney sandwiches filling our mouths and sipping oh so sweet cherry kool-aid,
I remember the true smell of raw corn still on its stalk, plump sweet tomatoes and snap green beans floating in the air as the garden’s fragrance beckoned our stomachs,
I remember watching the sun go down on our first week of summer and the sweet, musky smell of your own sweat from a fun filled day,
I remember ole Mr. Louis’ white and brown spotted dog, Twain, heading down the road, staggering just like his ole master;
I remember Mr. Louis, barely able to walk, full of moonshine whiskey and thick, red cough syrup, mumbling,
“Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!”
I remember watching and waiting each evening, physically spent and gloriously tired and sweaty,
watching for the faithful pair to walk by,
I remember as the certainty of the sun’s going down, ole Mr. Louis followed by ole Twain ending each summer day heading home for the night,
I remember the familiar setting of twilight’s dusky curtain over the fields and trees surrounding our vast playground on the farm,
I remember to this day, ole Mr. Louis and ole Twain, the mascots of our summer vacations, his master’s voice fading into the night until there is only silence,
“Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!
© March 7, 2007 Marlena B. Beal
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Regis
Welcome to the Den!
Be always safe,
Karen