I don't remember many exact details of my childhood.
The memories are more sensory pictures with faded edges, dapples of sunlight on the dark, cool grass, and sounds of breezes rustling the leaves, crickets chirping, and stones popping off of automobile tires as they travel past the yard and on down the dirt road, the scent of dark Spring dirt or fresh mown hay from the field behind the house, and the taste of Summer sun warmed tomatoes and green peas right from the garden.
These pictures are a compilation of memories, of Summers blended together in the colorful glass mixing bowl that Grandma kept in her cupboard. They taste of dust and fresh mown hay, of bacon and tomato sandwiches, macaroni salad and niffles (yes they are a thing) and lettuce with a simple vinegar and sugar dressing.
They travel in a metal picinic basket with a plaid design, to a field where Grandpa is mowing, or plowing, or raking. They run down the dirt road to a wooded spot where the daffodils grow near a small brook.
They play in the tent made of blankets, hung over the clothes line in the back yard. They sleep under the stars, waking to a dew soaked morning that smells fresh and damp at the same time.
This is a part of where I begin.