It’s A Mystery To Me
I grew up on a small farm not far from the western shore of the Chesapeake. Summers meant daily hard work, up before dawn and out long after dusk, until the mosquitoes mercifully carried us off the fields. There was little respite for working kids who lived on an organic subsistence long before we ever knew what the word organic meant.
Some leisure time, though, was to be had for me: down at the swimming hole, scampering after the ice cream truck, badminton nets on the grassy lawn, softball with the flirty girls and showoff boys, cookouts under the apple trees; laying on the still-warm grass gazing up at the carpet of stars that blanketed the night sky and using my imagination when my mind was not otherwise occupied with work and play.
