With the beginning of spring, the daily routine began including longer walks again. The meadows would be blooming for all they were worth, exploding with colors, fragrance and sounds. The ducks proudly showed off their young on the river ponds and we would spend hours cutting up old bread into small pieces for them. Granny insisted they also liked leftover potatoes despite the fact that they would sink like rocks the second they hit the water. Her unshakable belief provided little me with the scientific observation that ducks can, and will, dive quite nicely (and also chatter rather angrily when they weren't fast enough to catch the morsels). The feeding frenzy - and, for a small child, trying to sneak a touch on an excited and therefore less careful duckling - would be accompanied by lots of giggling, Granny, right alongside, just as excited as the little ones, splashing away and whooping with glee. 

The first willow that had the misfortune to burst into soft gray flower buds would be all but stripped bare of its treasures, destined by decades of tradition to fill every vase Granny owned and bring spring into the house with a vengeance. I'll never forget the one time we were caught and had to explain to the forest ranger how this tall stack of twigs came to lay about innocently in the middle of a thicket. Granny knew the laws very well, and was quick to dispose of the bounty at the first sight of uniform in
the vicinity of HER hunting grounds. Seeing her fluttering eyelashes and playing 'old confused crone' was a sight to be stored away for many nights to remember. She wasn't too slick though (it would have helped if her clippers hadn't peaked out of her basket) and we ended up with hanging heads and properly chastised, profusely promising to 'never do it again' (with crossed fingers, thinking, well, not THIS year anyway). We also ended up with the huge bundle of willow. Appears the ranger had a soft spot for ditsy females. Either that or my crocodile tears did it, for he installed the vision of seeing Granny taken away and locked up quite vividly in my 6-year-old brain. Of course, the experience was forgotten just as fast. I will not even get into the lilac foraging, which was the one smell that would turn my levelheaded Grandmother into a complete drooling maniac with only one thought left: GIMME. Unfortunately, it is a trait I seem to have inherited.

With the rising of temperature, all windows would remain wide open as long as there was a speck of light left, regardless of the cooling air that came with sunset. We would snuggle up side by side with a blanket, leaning on the windowsill and watching the only cinema we knew - Nature's light show. We never tired of it, and work would just have to wait until the last sunray had disappeared. Life was just too important to be missed.

The meadows down by the river would be our second home for six long weeks while school was out. Granny would either play with me, or sit on a shaded bench with her needlework,  waiting for me to bring her just another plant to identify. A game we both never tired of, and one that should mark my future. 'Go find a new plant' rings in my heart until this very day. 

Oh, the Meadows... a safe paradise, miles away from civilization as we know it today. I remember one day we were kicking a ball around and not paying  attention to the strong wind, and our (only) ball landed in the river. I stood frozen with shock while Granny tried to retrieve it with whatever sticks were available. Of course, the current swiftly took it along and Granny, hitching her skirts, began running after it, cussing and hollering.  We followed the river all the way down to the waterpower plant and
watched the ball disappear in the maelstrom of foam and noise. We had to climb a fence, but we were there when the giant waterfall on the power plant's other side spat out what was left of our toy. We must have leaned on the rail for a good 15 minutes, staring down into the whirlpool, neither one of us saying a word.  We both knew very well there wasn't going to be a new ball. Finally, we looked at each other, Granny shrugged, and we trudged back, hand in hand, throwing stones into the traitorous river every so often for good measure. As the season slowly changed into summer, we would pack a picnic basket and often stay out all afternoon. Some days we would make the long journey (all on foot for not many people owned cars back then, not that Granny ever learned how to drive) to the city's swimming pool, to alternate drowsing in the sun with quick 'swims'.  Since Granny did not know how to swim either, we would both stay in the shallow end of the grown-up pool. That was a rare treat as children were forbidden access, but Granny unfailingly would balk to join the kiddie pool. She would haughtily announce to anyone who bothered to admonish her about 'rules' that SHE was too old and frail (:::snort :::  yeah right, tell me another one) to run the distance should I get in trouble elsewhere, yet I needed constant supervision and she was NOT going to forfeit  her entrance fee by not bathing thank you very much if its all the same to you. So there!  Of course, to me it was funny how she would forget my "need for constant supervision" the second we were elsewhere.... she always  trusted me completely.

Having found her one flaw (well, besides ice cream, that is...Granny held the village speed record of running down the steps when the ice cream man rang his bell and Lady help the child that tried to cut the line in front of her!)  I was left to scrounge up my courage and teach myself how to swim.

As always, my first baby 'steps' were towards her open arms. She was incredibly proud, but she never quite wanted to try for herself (my method was not conducive to her little white curls, as I simply took a deep breath, flattened myself onto the water and paddled around until I ran out of air. It wasn't until much later that year that I was coordinated enough to keep my head above the water too).  It took years of nagging, a secluded shallow pond, and my safety ring to get her to try for herself. She didn't turn out a graceful swimmer, but she could dog paddle and stay afloat enough to satisfy me and dispel the vision of drowned Grams.

Summer was also the time when I was 'dolled up', cosmetically speaking.  There was no makeup, as there was no money. What we could not find and make, we simply did not have. She always knew where to find just the right berries to stain lips so prettily, and feathers or woven flowers were worn as proudly as any of the jewelry children have today. I can't help but feeling I got the better deal. I often wish I would take the time to reproduce the remedies she concocted, for my hair has never been as soft (or as golden blonde) as when I was subjected to her rinse of chamomile tea with lemon juice. Conditioner was applied once a week, by way of an egg yolk whipped into incredibly strong German beer loaded with yeast. That formula I have tried once, but it seems our sense of smell was not as refined back then and I quickly decided it wasn't such a good idea when one has to share an office with other human beings with 'modern' noses. It must have worked well though, for my hair was thick as a horse's tail and long enough to sit on.

Most evenings would end with a bubble bath, with foam all the way up to my nose, and Granny poking her head into the bathroom every so often to see if 'I was wrinkled up like a prune' yet. It never bothered her that the tiles would be soaking wet from the foam, or the mirror got streaky.  Who cared?  I was having a good time, and that was all that mattered. My toys would consist of whatever wasn't needed in the kitchen at the time, an old cup, a long spoon, and a straw.... you wouldn't BELIEVE what a blast you can have beating foam around in a cup, maybe adding a drop of colored soap or food coloring for effect! (Note:  Raspberry and other berry derived food coloring can stubbornly stay on a small child for as long as 5 days, rendering a beautiful fey-like hue.  Attach fake wings before sending said child out into the cruel world).

To this very day I choose my homes on three criteria: At least one window has to face the sunset, the kitchen must be big enough to hold a table and chairs, and the bathroom has to include a full sized tub. 

Enjoy your summer for all it's worth. There will never be another one just like it.

Green Blessings,  Sorcy SummerWind