Every summer dad would maneuver his Ford sedan, bumping down dirt roads, mom screaming, "Watch that rut! We'll fall in!" It was our annual trip to my mother's sister's farm where Susie and I would frolic in the country air for a whole week. Aunt Hazel would be waiting on her big front porch, usually a pan of beans or corn for shucking, a dog or two at her side. She was generous in all ways, down to her dresses. To accommodate her massive bosom, a family trait her four sister's shared, she'd let out the tops. She "spliced" the bodices of her cotton dresses with crescents of any old material, always a contrasting print and color, so a set of parenthesis seemed to precede her wherever she went. Susie and I grew restless asking, "Are we there yet?" and watched for the blazing canna-flower bed in front, the tire swing and covered well where Andy, our cousin once got a bad bee sting quenching his thirst from the tin dipper that always hung there.
This time Hazel had yards white material cut into strips (most likely from a cast-off bed sheet) and a new box of Crayolas. "I want you girls to decorate this all along the bottom with tulips so I can make curtains for my kitchen" was her greeting to us. We ran inside to check out the 8 foot row of squatty windows for our newest project and ran into "our" bedroom. We threw ourselves smack-dab into the middle of the bed, Hazel's feather tick rising up and practically burying us. It never got old. We'd plump it up again and repeat the whole thing, laughing hysterically. Our week of freedom had begun in earnest. Mom and Hazel would start dinner and Andy would show us around to see what was new this year. He pointed to a litter of baby kittens, a pig and a rusty rain barrel. He promised he'd roll us down a hill inside it. When we passed the chicken house I got a twinge in my stomach because it would be my job to get the eggs every morning. I could almost smell the chicken feed and see all those itchy little feathers drifting in shafts of light inside it. My nose itched at the thought.
Your memories are gold and you must write them down for family members to enjoy and remember simpler times, long past. This journal, designed for just that purpose has "prompt" words to help you get started. One story will generate five, so get busy now.
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