Ten Things I Remember

Daddy’s old Padres shirt—it hit us at about our knees. Large enough for a sleep shirt, so we used it often, for ourselves and any impromptu overnight guests who forgot theirs.
Granddaddy Bostick’s 1948 gray Dodge parked behind the garage.
The wringer washer on the back porch every Monday morning.
Laundry stretched across clothesline and fence to dry, and the fresh outdoor smell when we took it down.
Cumquat trees inside the circular driveway that looked like orange polka dots on green taffeta.
The yellow eyes of an owl shining through the blackness of the summer nights.
The old-fashioned soda fountain in Budge’s Drugstore where I created some tasty treats that summer I worked there.
Our wails at the table when we found out we were eating the pet calf.
Green waves of Daddy’s cornfield seen from the kitchen window.
The rope hanging over the river from a thirty foot tree, waiting for someone to swing out and splash into the water.