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Country Daysby John Kentwhere the sea was wild grass, the houses few and the days lazy, a lonely road wended up a low sloping hill, where a sagging grocery store coughed as the dust kicked up when an occasional car passed, or a creaking pick-up showed its age. I spent summers at Aunt Jenny's house; big sprawling relic, all porch and windows, lived in and livable; grown old without complaint, although in need of repairs. Back of the house, friendly woods, no sense of danger, secret places, where young minds played at dream-catching. My cousins and I, with other kids, dived into the old swimming hole beneath the trestle where freight trains rumbled; an infinite line of cars, rusted, traveled, places seen only in imagination. We skinny-dipped on a dare, while girls gasped and squealed; raced our bikes through nature's hidden passageways. Behind a tree, I kissed a girl, she slapped my face, kissed me back. At night we counted stars, caught the dippers, big and little, listened to the night song of the woods, while the wild grass wooed a passing wind. Today, Aunt Jenny's gone...the house, the wild grass, the woods, ...yet, from time to time, I still spend summers there. |
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