Childhood summer

Thousands and thousands of tall grass stems nod in unison. The summer breeze had asked a question. I watch the rippling of affirmative nods from timothy and brome, but I know not the question nor the answer. Not yet.

The bobolink rises and sinks as its four toes clutch a stem of smooth brome. From weight and wind, the bird bends with the grass blade as if to form a question mark. A question mark in black and white. I lift my gaze to the sky, close my eyes, and then I hear the summer breeze query me. It asks if I remember a childhood summer when…

… When the same gentle wind nudged puffy white clouds above the silo, the concrete cylinder rising tall above me while I lay on my back. The clouds appeared to skim the silo’s dome. I saw places and animals in the clouds. Montana and dogs. I stared and squinted, growing dizzy as the clouds stopped and silo started falling. Or so it seemed.

… When I listened, from the front porch, to cicadas screeching in the towering cottonwood tree. I was fascinated with the sound of a piercing siren, a persistent whining, but had little idea what these bugs were. I don’t hear cicadas now, perhaps because I don’t have a cottonwood tree, perhaps because I don’t take the time to listen.

… When, with fishing pole and nightcrawlers, I walked through a neighbor’s field, over a hill, and dropped down to the river. I wanted to catch a brook trout, and thought I had. When I got home, I was told it was a redhorse. But I was fishing, and felt the river’s flow among fish I didn’t know. Now I know, but I struggle to feel the flow that is the energy of a child.

… When I found a walking stick, partly because I was closer to the ground then, partly because I was filled with boyish inquisitiveness. I’ve seen one walking stick since, and instinctively whisked it away, off my arm, before I realized. I searched among the clover and alfalfa for the insect but could not find it, leaving my disappointment behind with it.

…When the summer breeze pushed clouds over the hayfield. The breath of wind drifted across windrows of hay, to the shaded fence line where I sat on an empty wagon. My dog sprawled beneath the wagon, resting from his perceived duty to pursue field mice. I daydreamed as I waited for the sound of the tractor and baler approaching. I watched a jet’s vapor trail fatten and flare out, from a pencil line to a frayed rope.

…When the breeze pushed the rope aside, but not my hope, a child’s hope for all days to be like this summer’s day. To be safe, happy and worry-free. The hope is the same today, as the breeze once again whispers to me, telling me I will always remember. And I do.

Dave Greschner, retired sports/outdoors editor at the Rice Lake Chronotype, writes about nature and the outdoors, pursues nature photography, and is the author of “Soul of the Outdoors.” He can be reached at davegreschner@icloud.com.