Those wonderful autumn days when the temperatures warmed for the last time before winter closed in. Wearing red flannel lined jeans, toe capped Keds, someones hand-me-down college sweatshirt . . . Raking leaves with the neighborhood kids in Ricky Klein's yard, piling them on 'taters wrapped in tin foil. Watching the flames lick high into the sky warming our faces. Breaking into those chestnuts of goodness, plumped with goblets of butter. Best taters ever. Or baked apples dusted with cinnamon and sugar, eaten on the stoop with a spoon . . . still hot from the fire . . . my mouth watering.
Those wonderful days of scampering down into the Glen trying to scale the shale walls or searching for fossils or clumps of soft moist moss. Digging in the clay, making homemade pots and dishes. Picking Jack-in-the-Pulpits and skunk cabbage . . .
Pulling apart our roller skates and nailing each section to the bottom of a scrap of wood scavenged from a newly constructed house, we'd tear down Green Knolls Drive on our bellies. Skinned knees and elbows a badge of the warrior in us all. Over and over again until one by one our parents beckoned us in for dinner.
Florida is not quite the same as growing up on the lake but was reminiscent. Bright clear skies, cool breezes, a kiss of warmth in the air. Sigh.
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