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Description

The summer was high, the grass was tall, and I was small. How small, I can't be sure; undoubtedly somewhere in the haze of being little, before time, that illusive universal invariant, became solid and immovable – a world uncluttered by mandatory education, alarm clocks, and places to be. The day stood ripe before us, my mother and I, as we ventured out the door into the hot, dry, Indian summer air. The old black car sat baking in the driveway, pleading for someone to take it for a spin and let the windows open wide. It seemed just as impatient as I to reach its destination as we hopped in and it roared to life as a lion awaking hungrily from a long sun-drenched snooze on the African Savannah. "Don't forget your seat belt," I stated perfunctorily as I clicked in my own. "I know..." replied my mother. This was our routine. It was my job to remember the seat belts, or at least I had taken it upon myself to never forget. The car at last escaped the confines of the driveway and I sat fidgeting in my co-pilot's seat, eyes transfixed by the road ahead as waves rippled from the hot pavement, distorting my vision and causing me to wonder if it was just my eyes or was the air really melting? "Where we goin'?" I asked as we turned onto Old Belchertown Road. "The Krauses’. Robin, Emmie, Hillah and everyone's there," was all she said, but that was all it took to fill me with excitement as we wound down the curvy back roads.

We passed the Ware River, swelled with summer rain, scattered with skinny birch trees gracefully bending over its banks, their thirsty roots straining for the cool water, drinking deep. It seemed as if they might spring to life at any moment, moving as slowly as the ents of Middle Earth, shepherding the forest and speaking nature's wisdom in ancient tongues. The sun was blinding as it poured through the windshield. I sat in the velvety seat, holding my mother's hand (we always hold hands). My feet couldn't reach the floor. Instead, my legs dangled from the edge of the seat, swinging carelessly. The windows were wide open; the car didn't have air conditioning, but I preferred it that way. There was just something so appealing about contorting myself so I could crane my neck out and gaze up into the branches of the trees overhanging the twisting country roads. Or perhaps the allure was in peering over the edge of the window: dizzying myself as I watched the painted lines continue on their unceasing journey. Open windows signified the freedom and timelessness of summer, of riding past farms in South Hadley, the earth flat in every direction and the air smelling of fresh cow manure. We'd scrunch our noses and moo at the cows, then we'd stop for ice cream and the day would be complete.

The car slowed as we turned into the Krauses’ driveway. I sat up straight (rigid posture betraying my excitement) staring ahead as we navigated our twisting, bumpy, puddle-ridden way down to the house -- the suspense of arrival building inside me with each turn of the wheels. At the bottom of the gravel driveway we met our last obstacle: the bridge. This precarious crossing consisted solely of two wooden slats set a car's width apart. We nervously inched our way across and I peered out the window to watch the small creek trickle along its way beneath us. At long last, we reached the other side. My mother breathed a sigh of relief reminiscent of a sailor who has gladly returned home to solid ground after surviving a long and turbulent journey at sea.

We parked the car and got out only to be greeted by the barking and drooling of the Krauses’ ancient black lab guarding his domain. Fending off the dog, we walked down a set of steps and a small stone pathway that lead to the front door. We were ushered into the kitchen with warm, tight hugs from Grandma Krause and various shouts of welcome that reached our ears from deeper within the house. Entering this magical place, I never knew what to look at first – there was just so much to see! Each visit was sure to reveal something new, some undiscovered treasure that had somehow managed to evade my gaze on previous visits. First to inspect was always the refrigerator, hardly recognizable under a blanket of grandchildren’s proud offerings, graciously awarded the coveted role of refrigerator fame. With it's cold metallic skin one would be surprised to find so much warmth in the mass of magnets commemorating a lifetime's worth of places visited and sights seen. Every speck of this home was covered with love and history. It's magic was contagious; upon walking though the door, a new world was breached and time ceased to exist.

After exhausting the required conversations with adults who contemplated with a squinted eye and awed expression how much I'd grown since they'd last seen me, I gladly continued my exploration. I took the time to inspect photo albums, colorful marble collections, and every sort of trinket imaginable as I went. Meandering my way through the living room, I listened with half a mind as snippets of the adults' conversation swam around my head. "Have the turkeys started coming around yet this year?"..."What about the recipe for that salad, do you still have it?"..."How's your sister been? Seems like ages since I've seen her..." Then all sound ceased as I turned a corner and passed through a doorway hung with beads onto the back porch.

For all I knew, I could have entered upon prehistoric times, a menacing Tyrannosaurus Rex lurking in the vegetation, waiting to swallow me whole! If the house was a different world, then this room was its own piece of Fern Gully. It was a jungle with damp, heavy air, hanging spider-like plants and brightly colored blossoms bursting out of the sea of green in which they swam. My olfactory senses were flooded with the freshness of the air, the fragrances emanating from each plant mingling together as I breathed deeply and listened to the faint rushing of the creek outside and the playful tinkling of wind chimes.

Presumably checking in to see what I was up to, Grandma Krause came to join me in my private jungle. I looked at her expectantly; adults always seemed to have something to say. "Want to help me water the plants?" she asked. Of course I did. She helped me stand on a chair to reach the high hanging plants as we moved among the flora with the watering jug. She effortlessly proffered the name of each plant and flower. I listened intently as she divulged to my young ears the wisdom she had carefully gathered over the years: a bit of common knowledge here, a piece of folklore there which now coursed through her veins, a distinct part of her. From my vantage point atop the old chair I glimpsed the small thundering waterfall that connected the creek with the pond out back. Grandma Krause must have seen the spell the rushing water cast on me as she said, "I think all the kids went out to play in the creek..."

With a bolt I was out the door and running down the small hill to meet the other kids at the water. Emmie saw me coming and yelled "Ash-uh-ley, Ash-uh-ley, come on, I got you a net!" The next couple of hours passed in a haze of seeing who could capture the most tiny green frogs, attempting to cross the creek on the slippery stones, and fruitlessly trying to catch minnows with our bright plastic butterfly nets. Soon the mosquitoes decided we made a good meal and we slowly trudged our wet selves back into the house, grugingly putting away the butterfly nets and freeing the frogs.

What followed next is common to all children. It's that stumped, "what next?" time that always seems to accompany the end of something fun. After mulling around in search of a new game, we discovered the princess version of Hungry, Hungry Hippo lying in a pile of neglected board games. Shoed like pesky insects from the living room by the adults we made our way up the narrow staircase to the second floor and cleared a spot to lay out the game. There we all were, the royal family of our Hungry Hippo kingdom, bedecked with costume jewelry, our heads crowned with plastic tiaras. We lay sprawled on the floor on our stomachs: propped up on our elbows with our heads in our hands as particles of dust and sunlight streamed through the window.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a continuous eruption of giggles and fun until my mother called up from the bottom of the stairs that it was time to go.I was crushed. I didn't want to leave this magical place, this house that had given rise to the perfect day. Slowly we made our way out the door, halting to give goodbye hugs and say our farewells with the assurance that we'd come back soon. As we walked back up to the car, I saw a toad on the pathway. After a short chase, I managed to catch it and wondered if touching such a bumpy looking creature could give you a wort. Twilight was falling and my mom was calling. I guess that mystery would have to wait for another day.

Description

The summer was high, the grass was tall, and I was small. How small, I can't be sure; undoubtedly somewhere in the haze of being little, before time, that illusive universal invariant, became solid and immovable – a world uncluttered by mandatory education, alarm clocks, and places to be. The day stood ripe before us, my mother and I, as we ventured out the door into the hot, dry, Indian summer air. The old black car sat baking in the driveway, pleading for someone to take it for a spin and let the windows open wide. It seemed just as impatient as I to reach its destination as we hopped in and it roared to life as a lion awaking hungrily from a long sun-drenched snooze on the African Savannah. "Don't forget your seat belt," I stated perfunctorily as I clicked in my own. "I know..." replied my mother. This was our routine. It was my job to remember the seat belts, or at least I had taken it upon myself to never forget. The car at last escaped the confines of the driveway and I sat fidgeting in my co-pilot's seat, eyes transfixed by the road ahead as waves rippled from the hot pavement, distorting my vision and causing me to wonder if it was just my eyes or was the air really melting? "Where we goin'?" I asked as we turned onto Old Belchertown Road. "The Krauses’. Robin, Emmie, Hillah and everyone's there," was all she said, but that was all it took to fill me with excitement as we wound down the curvy back roads.

We passed the Ware River, swelled with summer rain, scattered with skinny birch trees gracefully bending over its banks, their thirsty roots straining for the cool water, drinking deep. It seemed as if they might spring to life at any moment, moving as slowly as the ents of Middle Earth, shepherding the forest and speaking nature's wisdom in ancient tongues. The sun was blinding as it poured through the windshield. I sat in the velvety seat, holding my mother's hand (we always hold hands). My feet couldn't reach the floor. Instead, my legs dangled from the edge of the seat, swinging carelessly. The windows were wide open; the car didn't have air conditioning, but I preferred it that way. There was just something so appealing about contorting myself so I could crane my neck out and gaze up into the branches of the trees overhanging the twisting country roads. Or perhaps the allure was in peering over the edge of the window: dizzying myself as I watched the painted lines continue on their unceasing journey. Open windows signified the freedom and timelessness of summer, of riding past farms in South Hadley, the earth flat in every direction and the air smelling of fresh cow manure. We'd scrunch our noses and moo at the cows, then we'd stop for ice cream and the day would be complete.

The car slowed as we turned into the Krauses’ driveway. I sat up straight (rigid posture betraying my excitement) staring ahead as we navigated our twisting, bumpy, puddle-ridden way down to the house -- the suspense of arrival building inside me with each turn of the wheels. At the bottom of the gravel driveway we met our last obstacle: the bridge. This precarious crossing consisted solely of two wooden slats set a car's width apart. We nervously inched our way across and I peered out the window to watch the small creek trickle along its way beneath us. At long last, we reached the other side. My mother breathed a sigh of relief reminiscent of a sailor who has gladly returned home to solid ground after surviving a long and turbulent journey at sea.

We parked the car and got out only to be greeted by the barking and drooling of the Krauses’ ancient black lab guarding his domain. Fending off the dog, we walked down a set of steps and a small stone pathway that lead to the front door. We were ushered into the kitchen with warm, tight hugs from Grandma Krause and various shouts of welcome that reached our ears from deeper within the house. Entering this magical place, I never knew what to look at first – there was just so much to see! Each visit was sure to reveal something new, some undiscovered treasure that had somehow managed to evade my gaze on previous visits. First to inspect was always the refrigerator, hardly recognizable under a blanket of grandchildren’s proud offerings, graciously awarded the coveted role of refrigerator fame. With it's cold metallic skin one would be surprised to find so much warmth in the mass of magnets commemorating a lifetime's worth of places visited and sights seen. Every speck of this home was covered with love and history. It's magic was contagious; upon walking though the door, a new world was breached and time ceased to exist.

After exhausting the required conversations with adults who contemplated with a squinted eye and awed expression how much I'd grown since they'd last seen me, I gladly continued my exploration. I took the time to inspect photo albums, colorful marble collections, and every sort of trinket imaginable as I went. Meandering my way through the living room, I listened with half a mind as snippets of the adults' conversation swam around my head. "Have the turkeys started coming around yet this year?"..."What about the recipe for that salad, do you still have it?"..."How's your sister been? Seems like ages since I've seen her..." Then all sound ceased as I turned a corner and passed through a doorway hung with beads onto the back porch.

For all I knew, I could have entered upon prehistoric times, a menacing Tyrannosaurus Rex lurking in the vegetation, waiting to swallow me whole! If the house was a different world, then this room was its own piece of Fern Gully. It was a jungle with damp, heavy air, hanging spider-like plants and brightly colored blossoms bursting out of the sea of green in which they swam. My olfactory senses were flooded with the freshness of the air, the fragrances emanating from each plant mingling together as I breathed deeply and listened to the faint rushing of the creek outside and the playful tinkling of wind chimes.

Presumably checking in to see what I was up to, Grandma Krause came to join me in my private jungle. I looked at her expectantly; adults always seemed to have something to say. "Want to help me water the plants?" she asked. Of course I did. She helped me stand on a chair to reach the high hanging plants as we moved among the flora with the watering jug. She effortlessly proffered the name of each plant and flower. I listened intently as she divulged to my young ears the wisdom she had carefully gathered over the years: a bit of common knowledge here, a piece of folklore there which now coursed through her veins, a distinct part of her. From my vantage point atop the old chair I glimpsed the small thundering waterfall that connected the creek with the pond out back. Grandma Krause must have seen the spell the rushing water cast on me as she said, "I think all the kids went out to play in the creek..."

With a bolt I was out the door and running down the small hill to meet the other kids at the water. Emmie saw me coming and yelled "Ash-uh-ley, Ash-uh-ley, come on, I got you a net!" The next couple of hours passed in a haze of seeing who could capture the most tiny green frogs, attempting to cross the creek on the slippery stones, and fruitlessly trying to catch minnows with our bright plastic butterfly nets. Soon the mosquitoes decided we made a good meal and we slowly trudged our wet selves back into the house, grugingly putting away the butterfly nets and freeing the frogs.

What followed next is common to all children. It's that stumped, "what next?" time that always seems to accompany the end of something fun. After mulling around in search of a new game, we discovered the princess version of Hungry, Hungry Hippo lying in a pile of neglected board games. Shoed like pesky insects from the living room by the adults we made our way up the narrow staircase to the second floor and cleared a spot to lay out the game. There we all were, the royal family of our Hungry Hippo kingdom, bedecked with costume jewelry, our heads crowned with plastic tiaras. We lay sprawled on the floor on our stomachs: propped up on our elbows with our heads in our hands as particles of dust and sunlight streamed through the window.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a continuous eruption of giggles and fun until my mother called up from the bottom of the stairs that it was time to go.I was crushed. I didn't want to leave this magical place, this house that had given rise to the perfect day. Slowly we made our way out the door, halting to give goodbye hugs and say our farewells with the assurance that we'd come back soon. As we walked back up to the car, I saw a toad on the pathway. After a short chase, I managed to catch it and wondered if touching such a bumpy looking creature could give you a wort. Twilight was falling and my mom was calling. I guess that mystery would have to wait for another day.