When I was a child, and even into my young adult years, I thought our trips to Missouri to visit my grandparents and family were magical.
I associate beautiful cicada music with muggy south eastern Missouri days and nights, were we would step outside at midnight and the warm moist air wrapped itself around us, says this former Hoosier girl from Indiana. This year, I am hearing similar sounds from my central Texas home, and what a comfort it is.
The sound of a distant train bellowing it’s horn as it comes near a crossing- not once, but twice. The sound of cicadas busily making their calls. The hot days of summer. Precious.
Memories of lemonade in aluminum pitchers and tumblers under the big shade tree. Grandpa listening to Cardinal games on the radio, while hand churning ice cream. Sweat forming on my forehead, red face to match, with an occasional breeze that only teased the senses.
Cicada larva shells lined the decorative concrete blocks beneath the wide front porch. My treasures.
The same front porch I relaxed on and watched trains pull through town. Counting the numbers of cars and engines as they shimmied down the rails at county highway level below. If we were upstairs in the house, lights would gently sway as trains rumbled through. Joy was felt when I sensed trains before my ears would pick up.
Magical. My heart swells. Thank you, God, for precious memories.
I long for the sultry nights, with only a fan in the darkness to push the hot heavy air. The smell of bacon early in the morning, with grandmother in “her” kitchen before the rest of the world stirred.
Rows and rows of gardens. My own world. The secret garden. Dill. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. Corn. Flowers and fruit trees. I was lost, and beautifully hidden.
Cicadas, don’t stop. Sad that I now know the truth, such a short life, but I’ll ignore that much. They serve an innate purpose in my life.
If only I could only cut off a piece of sweet memory and share.
Perhaps I can. Perhaps I did.