Ode to a Summer Evening

I just had a little nap. Me, who claims she never takes them. And damn, it felt good - until I got up. I felt like I'd just gotten over the world's worst hangover; I felt wobbly and disoriented. It wasn't pretty. And here it is high summer, almost the Solstice. I felt ashamed nodding off on the almost longest day of the year. And it's a beautiful evening out there.

I recall a childhood when I played outside during the summer until it got dark - 9 p.m. or thereabouts. We dined on hot dogs, and afterward had vanilla popsicles that my father bought at the corner store. Then we played badminton, rode our bikes, and for the grand finale, we ran around catching lightening bugs in a jar.

The grid of streets we lived amongst was a world unto itself. Little Kirkwood town. I recently saw photos from the 1950's when my family moved there. The streets and houses seemed almost shabby. I saw a video my brother took in the 1960's. It looked like a rural version of Oliver Twist. My sister saw the same video and asked me, "Did we grow up in Appalachia and just didn't know it?" It was far from a place of wealth, it was below middle class, blue collar all the way. But I hadn't a clue because I was happy - and I knew it. I grew up with parents who loved us and loved each other and better yet, they liked each other. But our town was poor. We were poor. I have never said that out loud before (or in writing.) I believe we were poor, but it never seemed so. My mother was beautiful in her kindness and gentleness. My father worked hard, but he never seemed stressed, not for a day. I am glad that he wasn't. I never felt that I didn't have enough - of anything. I would have rather had my life, my childhood, my mother and father as they were (and are) - simple, kind, unfettered by the trappings of stuff and status. It made for simple summer evenings when I drifted off to sleep by the light of a firefly in the jar by my bed.