Last evening, in spite of my fear of lyme disease ridden ticks, I was delighted to see my kids rolling down the hill in our back yard. Feet and head facing north and south, their bodies rolled east. I had taught my oldest this a while back, remembering how much fun it had been for my sister and I when we were kids.
Knowing I would check their little bodies and blonde heads later, I stared at them as they giggled and rolled, running up the hill to "do it again, Mom". Flashbacks of my sis and I in the 1970's dressed in some rainbow t-shirt with unicorns on it and corduroy O.P. shorts hit my memory bank. Our tan little bods rolling down the miniature hills in my grandmom's yard towards the apple trees that bordered her front yard. Our hair tangled and filled with grass cuttings and our clothes having grass stains, we'd hoop and holler and start all over again.
The apple trees in her front yard were my first playhouse. Apple trees being the best tree in my opinion to school a kid on climbing a tree, I was often found there. In the hot summer, their low branches provided shade and the feeling of protection. In the fall, their apples gave me many a snack, often a stomachache from too many but the best being fried apples after a Sunday dinner at Grandmom's. She would fry them up in a lot of butter, sugar and cinnamon with the skins on. They were so limp and sweet, I'd savor each slice before it would slip down my throat.
Aren't apple trees one of the best kind? For all they do. And, isn't watching your children partake in something you did as a child that requires nothing but a small hill, inspiring? I hope this post brings back a good memory to lube your writing process on this Tuesday!