June 1st – 90 degrees.
A day like today takes me back to my childhood. As I ponder a time when I was about five or six years old, I remember hot summer days like this one. And my mother’s homemade lemonade.
I’d outgrown my need for an afternoon nap, or so I thought. But my clever mother knew that after I played hard all day, I’d be getting tired and irritable by about two o’clock. So she’d appear on the back porch around that time, call me and tell me to invite my playmates to come and sit on the porch for a while and have some ice cold lemonade.
She didn’t have to ask twice. There were always at least three friends – sometimes more, and everyone rushed to take my mother up on her invitation.
What a nice treat! We’d sit there sipping the cold liquid, giggling and telling stories that can be conjured up only by kids that age. One little girl was known for her tall tales, and the rest of us tried our best to come up with something even more far-fetched than she. The stories ranged from one little girl’s brother killing a bear with his bare hands, and a little boy’s father holding a rattlesnake without getting bitten, to another little boy climbing so high in a tree that he was able to touch a big fluffy white cloud. “That’s the truth!” he said, wide-eyed.
In the evening, while I was getting my bath, I’d relate my friends’ stories to my mother and she’d laugh heartily. I think she looked forward to hearing them.
If only I could remember all of those fabrications, I could write a book and call it "Tall Tales for Summer Afternoons."
My mother would like that!