Summertime in the mid-1950s came with a golden hush, a kind of softness that settled over the small town of Caseyville like a quilt stitched from sunlight. Back then, life moved at a slower pace. Dusk was the hour we waited for all day, when the heat of summer finally slipped away and the sky turned the color of dreams ~ lavender, honey and softening blue.
We were children on the edge of something for which we didn’t have names. We spilled from our homes, played hide and go seek among bushes, tree trunks and fences. Boys darted like shadows, laughing ~ girls clutched giggles behind willow trees, hearts beating fast for reasons having nothing to do with the game. We traded whispered secrets like currency.
Someone’s mother would call from the kitchen window, her voice warm and distant, offering a tray of clinking glasses ~ half lemonade, half iced tea, ice melting fast. A few minutes later, another parent would appear with a hand-cranked churn of homemade ice cream, the kind that left your tongue tingling, your soul wide awake.
We played until the stars blinked overhead and fireflies lit the grass with secret codes. We could smell freshly cut lawns and warm earth, the sweetness of wild clover crushed under running feet. There were glances, touches that lingered, names called with a little more softness.
Now, all these years later, I still see it ~ the way a certain boy ducked behind the Holtcamp's garage ~ waited a second longer ~ ensuring I would find him. The hush of twilight when everything felt possible. Those were summers, before the world tilted us toward growing up. I carry them with me like a favorite song ~ a few notes, and I’m there again. Precious memories amassed, woven into the fabric of our lives.