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Health & Fitness

Spring

I miss spring in my childhood home.  522 Dunbar Street in Beecher, Illinois is where I grew up.  Our yard was a garden and I loved watching it come alive.  The birds would return, crocus, daffodils, and tulips would be pushing their way toward the sun.  Buds and blossoms appeared on all the trees as the bees buzzed busily from one tree or bush to the other. 

We lived there with our Grandparents and our Mom after the divorce.  Although it should have been a difficult time, I remember is as being a very happy time in my life. My maternal Grandparents were simply the best.  My Grandma got us up for school every morning, made our lunches as we ate our cereal and brushed our teeth.  The kitchen smelled of sanka and burnt toast, her usual breakfast.  The taste of both lingered on her lips when she kissed us goodbye.  Sometimes I burn toast just to surround myself with a memory of her.  She was always home and waiting for me and my sister when we came home from school eager to hear about our day and help with our homework.

Grandpa would come home from his milk route every night at the same time.  My sister and I would be hiding underneath the buffet in the dining room where he would check the mail.  We'd crawl out from underneath and each of us would sit on top of his heavy work boots.  He'd stomp around the dining room wondering aloud why his legs felt heavier and then he'd look down and see both of us grinning up at him.  He'd clean up for dinner, lead us in our dinner prayer, and head out to the yard with us once dinner dishes were cleared.  He'd walk around the yard checking for things that needed to be placed right after the winter, check the oil and tires on the cars, and get his lawn mower ready for the summer  chore of grass cutting.  He'd haul our bikes out of the basement along with our Big Wheels.  We'd race up and down our driveway hundreds of times on those things with the click, click, click of the wheel noise maker punctuating each rotation.

The nights were a bit longer and you could smell the earth in the air.  There was always a whippoorwill making his familiar sound in the distance welcoming spring, longing for the longer days of summer.  Our friends lived in the houses next door or across the alley.  We were allowed to ride our bikes or roller skate in the street as our road was fairly quiet.  Any leaves left over from the fall were raked to the front of the yard and burned.  A chestnut not gathered by a squirrel would pop in the fire our Grandfather tended beneath the two giant chestnut trees that would shade our room from the heat that was coming with the summer sun.  The porch would once again become our play room cooled by the cross breeze created by the open windows and covered with bamboo roller shades only our Grandma was allowed to touch.  We would hit the first step and jump over the remaining 4 on our way down the porch steps and gather a sweet, fragrant bouquet of Lily of the Valley for her.  She seemed to appreciate every flower that came from the garden and was gentle about reminding us to make sure the stems were long to reach the water in the vase she would display them in.

Yes, I miss spring in that house and not only because of the rituals that became our way of life while we lived there.  I miss the people who, during that time, were my whole world.  Our neighborhood friends, the landlady who created the beautiful garden she tended diligently every day from spring to fall.  Our Mom who worked nights to be with us during the day.  Most especially I miss my Grandparents.  They taught me so much by their examples of kindness, generosity of time, and love.  What could have been a terrible time for me has ended up being the most wonderful time of my childhood.  The memories I cherish the most happened right there in that old house and the side yard and garden of my youth.  Every year when the earth defrosts and the smell of dirt fills the air with promise of green grass to cut, beautiful flowers to plant, and bulbs to discover, I am reminded of this time.  If that isn't enough to wrap me up in my memories, I do something really crazy....I go to my kitchen and I burn some toast on purpose and I can almost feel my Grandma brushing my cheek with one of her soft, mushy, burnt toast and sanka kisses. 



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