This is what I remember

I remember sitting on the patio at Grandma and Papa’s, as I did every summer of my childhood. It was nothing fancy. Nothing like today’s works of art with pergolas, fountains, and cushioned couches arranged in “outdoor living room” fashion. This patio was made of big squares of cement, a little uneven, created by Papa. There were just two canvas folding chairs, aqua colored. And a wooden bench with iron legs and arm rests. I had to remember to never, ever slide on that bench or else I’d get a tush full of splinters. The wood was gray and coarse, with slivers just waiting to piece my skin.

The patio was surrounded by grass filled with clover and cut off dandelions. Papa didn’t spray chemicals on his lawn. He kept the grass short, but didn’t worry about the occasional weed. He didn’t trim the edges or bag the clippings. In a nutshell, he didn’t obsess over his lawn like suburbanites tend to do nowadays. In his mind, lawns were for playing, growing new creations and enjoying summer evenings.

On the edge of the fenced in yard was a brown and khaki green hammock trimmed with a white fringe. Flower gardens next to the fence were designed in a wild, cottage style. No Type A flowers were allowed. No severely shaped bushes could be found in this yard. Instead, towering fir trees overlooked patches of unrestrained black eyed susans. Overgrown bushes blocked the view from 3rd Avenue. Bird baths and feeders kept a supply of happy well-nourished birds for us to enjoy.

Beyond the fenced-in yard, Papa and Grandma’s land kept going, a child’s paradise. Neighbors were spread out with large unfenced property and impressive vegetable gardens that generations of today shy away from. Papa had cherry trees, raspberries, blueberries and a big square garden just for veggies. He always parked his mint green Ford pick up, complete with a hard top over the bed, right next to a huge weeping willow tree. Usually the tree’s branches hung straight down to the ground, making a wonderful hideout for my brother and me. But, one year, we arrived to find the branches cut half-way up, obliterating our hideout. The pathetic tree looked like a supermodel after being talked into a hideous bob-shaped haircut.

The sky was clear and cobalt. No haze or pollution in this little town of 2000 folks. A gentle breeze drifted off the lake, disturbing the wind-chimes. Its tinkering sounds always made me feel lazy in the sun. Lady Bug, Grandma’s little, white yap-free poodle snoozed in the sun. And soon I would be too. The house was quiet with senior citizen naps and summer easy living. A peaceful retreat from the trials of childhood. A safe little cocoon of grandparent love.