Memoirs

The smell of fresh-cut hay is one of my favorite smells. This is very telling of how I grew up as a kid. The smell takes me back to lazy afternoons in the hayloft above where my white horse dozed in his stall, occasionally whipping his tail about to fend off flies. As I drive down State Road 32, past newly mowed fields, the smell fills my car. When I smell hay, I smell leather; bridles and saddles. I smell fly spray, which always reminded me of the smell of Fruit Loops. I smell the distinct smell of sweaty horses and sweaty saddle pads.

When I drive past a horse grazing in a pasture, its face obscured in a mesh fly mask that protects its eyes from irritating flies, I can instantly remember the feel of the mesh in my hands, the faux fur that wraps around the horses muzzle and around his ears. I can feel the fine hairs of his forelock slipping through my fingers as I pull it out from under the mask. I can feel the velvety softness of his tapered muzzle under my fingertips.

As I continue to remember, I imagine hooking my fingers through his halter, and pressing my forehead against his, sans fly mask. I imagine the feel and smell of his breath as he exhales deeply. I can feel his upper lip working over the top of my shoulder, where my neck and shoulder meet, his whiskers tickling me.

It has been seven years since I watched a stranger's trailer take my horse away. It has been 12 years since I first sat on a pony and took a riding lesson. Yet I can remember those sights and smells, the feelings and textures as if it was yesterday.

Summertime, summertime

I spend most of my day reading and wishing. A small portion of the day is devoted to job hunting and working my tedious Craigslist/Rentjuice job. Right now, I sit on the porch swing on my grandparents front porch. Across the street at the small basketball court, four boys are shooting hoops, swearing loudly and talking smack. Another car pulls up and three more boys pull up. Instantly, shirts are taken off, greetings are exchanged. The ball diamonds next to the courts are empty and quiet, with the exception of a few birds pecking about. The grass glows in the setting sun, save the places where the houses cast their shadows. Down the sidewalk a father and daughter work on tending the lawn. The little girl must be four or five, and her blonde hair radiates like a halo about her face, the sun illuminating the stray light strands that frame her round cheeks. She deftly maneuvers a rake two times her size, mimicking daddy. Dogs barking are heard from all corners of town. A four wheeler revs in the distance, down by the post office. Mr. Utterback peddles by on his bike, his twin boys in tow in a small cart following behind. Father and son start a game of catch with a football in the diamonds, and a girl sits on the far side on the yellow and green bleachers with her dog. Pick up trucks roll loudly buy in a small town consistency. It all seems picturesque, small town America as it should be. Straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

There seems to be no care of the pollution and destruction of the Gulf of Mexico, no hint of a war in the Middle East, of the rising crime in Indianapolis, just an hour away. There are just missed rebounds, "More time on the playground, daddy!", and a tumble off the tricycle.

Pick-up games of basketball, a turn on the merry-go-round, and slightly tattered American flags reflect the simplicity of the idea of the 'American Dream'.