As I stare at my iPad, scroll through news stories that read like sensationalized film noir and delete dozens of emails for Black Friday sales, political ads, and of course book platforms, I am reminded of simpler times when the news was just the facts, ma'am, and writing a letter was something you did with a pen and paper. The wait to hear back was much longer but you didn’t fret about whether the recipient would be mad at you or unintentionally offended by your emoji selection. Social media didn’t exist, and most people were friendly and smiled when you passed them on the sidewalk, not caring what your personal thoughts were on the state of the union or global warming.
I miss those days.
When I was a child, we lived on a small fruit farm in Washington’s beautiful Yakima Valley. We climbed trees, crawled through waist-high fields of alfalfa, built Cherry box forts, and jumped from the rafters of the barn into a pile of hay. We wandered all over that twelve-acre farm, feeling like we were miles from home. It was a great place to raise children and although our house was tiny compared to today’s standard, we never felt we lacked for anything.
My mother was a terrific seamstress and cook. She made all my clothes, her own clothes, and some of my brother’s as well. She canned vegetables, fruits, jellies and jams. She baked wonderful breads, cakes, cookies, and desserts. And still we were skinny kids. Probably because we played outside all day and had never heard of McDonalds.
My dad worked construction as a concrete finisher and had to get up very early to drive long distances to job sites. He came home tired but always had time to play a game of catch or shoot baskets.
On our land there were fifty prune trees, dozens of cherry trees, a few peach and a couple apricot, and one lone pear tree far out in the pasture providing shade to a few head of cattle. We also had a section of grape vines, but the grapes weren’t like those sold in stores today. They were full of seeds. Which made eating them all the more fun. Seed spitting contests usually ensued.
Our peaches didn’t look or taste like the hard, little rocks I find for sale here in the upper mid-west. They were huge, and fragrant, and the juice rolled from your hand and down your arm when you bit into one.
Sticky with juice, we would race our bikes up and down the gravel driveway until we were covered in a fine layer of dust and Mom would yell at us for carrying all that dirt inside when we showed up for lunch.
On a clear day, we could see a snow-covered Mount Rainier far off in the distance and sometimes caught the scent of mint fields on the wind.
Sadly, you can’t go back. I drove out there one year and our place was gone. Instead, the land had been replanted with wine vineyards. No barn. No house. No trees. No reminders remained of the laughter and tears and trouble we got into.
Thankfully, those cherished memories linger in my mind, and I can pull them up whenever I need to and remember simpler times when kindness and patience were common, playing outside was expected, and we had real conversations with other people and used real facial expressions to show how we felt.
Thanks for stopping by! Hope you enjoyed my reminiscing.