I can still feel and see, my childhood summer memories, even in my darkest moments, they are light that guides me home. Those June bugs on a string, whirring around my head, silly laughter as they land on my shoulder. Chasing fire flies through fields as evening begins. The smell of grandma's catfish a cooking on the stove, and those blackberry stains all over my hands, mouth watering from the thought of that cobbler a baking. Singing as loud as I could in front of my make believe crowd on the back of my grandpa's old flat bed Ford. Bowing low for the standing ovations, and silent yells for encore, that I'd gladly continue to give. The smell of fresh mowed hay, the feel of weight of the bale as it was bucked up into that same old flat bed. The comforting sounds of cows in the back ground calling for their calves. Tomato's hot from the sun straight off the vine, bursting warm and sweet in my mouth. Strawberries glistening on the ground, picking until we couldn't pick anymore. Dirt roads to explore for miles and miles. Sassafras filling the air with thoughts of Root Beer floats, overflowing in the glass. Honeysuckle invading my senses and taking me away on the wind. Frogs a jumping into that old green pond, with the dragon flies darting to an fro. Grandmas lilac bush with purple beauty and fragrance that calms the soul. Coyotes howling at night, chasing that distant train, but never quiet catching it. All these memories seem like a dream, far off life that created the safe place in my mind. My only joy from my childhood, was the moments lived and shared on that old farm. 382 acres of fun, laughter, adventures, and lots of love without pain. I go there from time to time in my mind to reflect the innocence lost elsewhere in my life. My grandfather, Virgil, was a simple, honest man, never an unkind word to me, never a hand lifted in anger. I loved him with all I had. The man who told me to tell them all to go to hell, he gave me that bit of strength in moments of my life that I felt that I might succumb to my life of fear and pain. In my mind this man would live forever, but we as mortals should know better. For he did die, in my heart and mind to young. After he died, I dreamed of him, sitting at my bedside holding my hand and telling me again to continue to be strong, that storms were a coming and to remember I will be alright. I do believe he was fore warning me of things to come, and to this day I lean in on his memory. This man who taught me to fish, to just be able to sit on those banks in the sun and be still, listening to the water, feeling the world around me. He taught me to love the things around me, to not give up, keep waiting, that fish will bite when ready. He taught me to jerk that line, set that hook, and pull that life line in to me. He taught me that some fish get away, and that's Gods plan, not ours. Let them go, but never give up on continuing the chase. He disliked snapping turtles, only time I ever heard him say an ill word was when they would take his potential prize flat head off his trout line. His yelling of "fire in the hole" when catching Carp early in the morning, still rings with excitement in my ears. I can still feel those moments of riding in the boat as the sun peaked up from the horizon, with fresh water misting up in my face. My first love of being near and on the water, I do believe came from being in those moments. This man taught me about life and death, about giving more than we receive, and being happy with the simple things that are found around us. I can still see him standing near his old tractor in blue overalls, red wing boots, and his bright light eyes. This farmer, father, my grandfather, this strong figure of a meaningful man, will never fade in my mind. He could fillet a fish faster and better than anyone I have ever seen, skin that fish and leave the heads as his trophies, as if he had to feed the wind with their spirits. He would sit out at the picnic table in the afternoon, fly swatter in hand, sure hand, hardly ever missed his target. Talking to the black squirrels, cracking the black walnuts open, leaving inviting fragrances to give to them, to keep them around, again sharing with the world around him. I see him sitting at the old black and yellow kitchen table, with his green coffee cup in the AM, black and hot that coffee was. A true man, if ever I knew one. I know he's the model of what a man should be, one I have in my mind and heart. May be no one that will ever fill that image more than he for me. He gave me what my father could not, the desire to live and love. He gave me peace when my life was in chaos. He gave a lap to curl up on, a hug without cost, and silent "I love you" in everything he did. He was not a man of many words, no, he was a man of actions. Character to me that was unflawed, truth, love, safety and strength was all I ever felt around him. I suppose I think about him today for I know he passed those abilities on to me. I am far from unflawed, but I am stronger than that little girl was all those years ago, and you were right grandpa, I am alright, and I'll continue to ride the storms out, another fish to catch and I will always continue this chase all my life.....
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