We ran, as we did everywhere. Across the fields, down the dusty roads of our childhood, through the starry dome of royal night. The wind blew and the storms chased us down the lane.
We ran. Home again, safe. Seconds ahead of the rain, the lightening, the thunder that rattled us inside our skulls. Each under the covers, protected by our houses that would shield us, if only because we were young and our faith in it held it up under the storm’s assault. Till the sun came with the trumpet blast of the cavalry, to save the cowboys, seconds from being overwhelmed by the indians.
Each day dawned bright, the potential endless for adventure and discovery, and sprained ankles falling out of trees. There were rocks to climb and hills to roll down, books to read about far off places while drinking iced tea brewed in the sun.
Such were the summers of crab grass, creeks, and ferris wheels, with July on the horizon, August unimaginably far, and September’s threat of school nothing but a dim murmur and shadow in our minds.