I love Chicago, but leaving the dirty, noisy city behind for the country is like taking a breath of fresh air after being stuck in a stuffy room for far too long. I was born and raised in a small town, and spent my last summer in an even smaller town. I spent the past day enjoying the country once more, and all of the beauty of open skies and rolling fields. It is more than just appreciating the beauty of the country and the absence of man made structures, but it is more about the memories I have of winding back roads and endless stretches of railroad tracks that are far less traveled than the El and subway. Driving on roads that I know better than any other, that have memories of summer nights with the windows rolled down and someone’s hand in mine is such a refreshing feeling to me. Driving past houses that I have visited and front porches populated with families and elderly couples is therapeutic after suffocating in a city where concrete buildings create formidable walls. There is nothing quite like a brilliant sunset illuminating fields of golden flowers and maple trees in early bloom. There is nothing like being able to see for miles over flat land dotted with trees and farms. There is nothing like seeing a horse grazing lethargically in a pasture or racing through a field with its neck gracefully arched and its mane streaming behind it. As I arrive in Ladoga, my mind is filled with bittersweet memories. It has been almost one year since…
I see the ball diamonds filled with young kids and their parents and my mind races back first to my past summer, and countless summers before. Summers of sitting on the front porch with Grandma and Grandpa slurping Root Beer flavored shaved ice. Summers spent on the play ground, or in the gulley catching frogs while Grandma fretted on the front porch, concerned about Aaron and I falling in the water. Summers spent eating a hamburger after playing ring toss at the fish fry, enamored with the pony in the little corral, begging daddy to let me ride it- just once. Summers of fireworks over the elementary school with the curiosity of what would happen if the sparks started a fire. Summers of Boy Meets World while sitting on the couch munching Hot Fries or Zebra cakes, or whatever else Grandma and Grandpa had provided to spoil me rotten with. A summer being foolish and frenzied with love, throwing caution to the wind and making mistakes I regret to this day. A summer of walks down the railroad track and over the bridge, enjoying the summer sun, wildflowers, and the creek winding sluggishly through the woods. A summer of writing from the window of my bedroom, wishing for innocence and simplicity again. A summer of getting home late from work, enjoying the smell of the country with my windows rolled down and a carton of my favorite ice cream and a bottle of sweet tea in the passenger seat. His black Rodeo rumbled deeply, sounding more like a tractor than a car, with one headlight illuminating the road ahead of me. I would turn off the headlights and creep down the county road mesmerized by the lightning bugs flashing around me by the hundreds. If I had known that it was going to be our last summer together, I wonder if I would have done things differently. Would I have kissed him with more passion knowing that it would come to an end, or would I have held back and let the passion melt away like the shaved ice? Would I have held his hand more tightly, or let him slip away? That summer taught me so much and left me with only one regret… Even now the memories leave a dull ache in my stomach and my eyes wet. Yet I can smile knowing that I have learned and grown more from this past summer, from all of my summers. So when I drive through Ladoga and see a couple hand and hand strolling down the street I remember with a small smile and a sense of longing what it was to have him venture into someone’s yard for a flower to add to my bouquet. I can smile at the thought of swinging on the swings together laughing like small children rather than young adults with the future staring them down holding promise and doubt.
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