Later in the day, after supper, we gather again in this front yard to continue our play. Hide and seek this time. Home base is the wide concrete steps on the front porch that stretches all the way across the house. One by one we sneak home, sliding toward the steps and yelling, "Home free," trying to avoid Pa's peony bushes.
As the light fades, Granny switches on the porch light and we change games, moving closer to the porch, playing Capture the Flag, maybe even getting some adults to join us, cautioning each other again not to run over Pa's peony bushes.
After we finish playing, we gather around Pa's lilac bush while he hand-cranks the ice cream freezer, chipping ice off a huge block that he keeps covered in heavy tarpaulin. I hear the ice in the freezer sloshing and the movements slowing, getting harder and harder to crank. The ice cream is finally ready, and I sit shivering while eating it, even in the warm summer evening.
These are my memories. This is my reality. I share this with my older sister, and, like one of those commercials that interrupts itself, the sound grinding to a halt, she says, "You know, that ice cream was really hard to make. Granny didn't like doing it, it was so much trouble. They had to go all the way to town to get the ice. Then she'd have to make up the ice cream and you know how Granny was so slow about everything."
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So realities differ. This is my memory of that time and that place. All good.
