by Marlena B Beal

Created on: October 08, 2009

I Remember Summer Days, The Creek and Ole' Twain

I remember way back whenlast day of school, long summer nights and the celebration of summer vacation,

I remember a school year ending, the final hour before the last bell, demanding we finish one last assignment and,

I remember, yet, ignoring the hurried, persistent instruction, our last act of classroom defiance only made the coming of summer vacation all the better earned,

I remember bare feet finally free of school shoes quickly cast into dark closets and left to wait until summer's end,

I remember the breathless moment of the first bright early mornings, long carefree days, and starry nights filled with the big dipper, lightning bugs and hide and seek,

I remember old Mr. Louis in his usual drunken stupor, staggering down the road, followed by his just as old dog, Twain,

I remember Mr. Louis' impatient command to his faithful dog, Twain, as the setting sun announced the day's end,

Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!

I remember the first morning of summer vacation, rolling out of bed in heart pounding anticipation,

I remember standing on the front porch, the fresh morning sun on my face and the feel of old weathered wood beneath my feet,

I remember inhaling the sweet smell of grass, dry dirt and honey suckle vines everywhere I turn,

I remember Uncle Gene's coveted squirrel house and many watchful hours spent staring through the mesh wire into their own private world,

I remember eager hours spent watching wild squirrels doing nothing special, eating walnuts and disappearing into the darkness above their lighted world below,

I remember looking up across the field and seeing Mr. Louis and ole Twain walking on the path towards us, in search of relief for his constant thirst,

Twain! Twain! Come on, ole Twain!

I remember the musky, stale smell of my uncle's hen houses and the pungent aroma of straw, still warm from speckled eggs freshly laid as the hens moved away,

I remember listening carefully as the sound of rats searching for eggs to steal, gave me the willies that they might be too near,

I remember gathered eggs piled in a bucket in my uncle's kitchen where twenty-five cent whiskey shot glasses filled the hands of old men and the younger wanna be's,

I remember old Mr. Louis' dirty shoes on brown linoleum floors of faded patterns and ole Twain waiting outside the door for his master's voice,

Twain Twain! Come on, ole Twain!

I remember the familiar clinking sound of iron horseshoes, dust and dirt

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