Having recently read To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf, I invite you to escape for the next minute or so and come along on this wee wander down a summer stream of consciousness.
Walking my cat in the backyard, a bee flew under my sundress and began stinging in places I should not have exposed to my neighbors -- who were hosting a party in the kiddie pool and mini water park that’s taken over their backyard. Taking me back to those endless summertime days of childhood and my backyard pool I’d arise every morning to top off with water -- just big enough to float on my back looking up into tall pecan trees that mom used in her delicious Karo pecan pies. Oh, and her peach cobblers about this time of year.
Seersucker stripes and madras plaids, pig tails bent over intent searches for four leaf clovers but with an ear out for the bells of the popsicle man pushing his cart of sweating frozen dreamsicles.
Packing the Chevy for our annual trek to the Florida Panhandle that made the Memphis heat we left behind feel like air conditioning. Falling asleep on my raft as I drifted out on the Gulf on a dream awakened by my dad keeping watch. Sunburnt before we knew any better.
Now it’s time to get some baking soda on those bee stings.
I’m Paula Garrett and that’s my perspective.
