Home. It is the place where I went from fairy tales to first love and back again. It is still a magical place for me. If I look down the hill and across the yard too the creek at twilight, the last rays of the sun reveal fairies still dancing among the trees and flowers there. In my mind’s eye there are forever blooming daffodils and daylillies, dandelions and tiny violets springing from a lush carpet of soft green moss. When storms blow in I feel the wind in my hair and thunder and lighting pulsing with excitement in my chest. As the stom passes on up the valley I run out to seek the inevitable rainbow touching down just where Grandmother planted her summer garden of corn and beans, tomatoes and cucumbers with marigolds intermingled to keep bugs at bay. So much treasure there at the beginning of the rainbows and magic in my life–I was blessed with more riches there than all the kings and queens in my beloved storybooks.
After the rain everything sparkled and glowed in the sunlight. The birds sang and danced with bees and squirrels and the occasional bunny speeding across the lawn. My cousins and neighbors and I would run out together to splash in the puddles and go in search of wild strawberries and sweet honeysuckle flowers along the fence. After these sweet summer treats we’d lie down in the soft clover and roll ourselves all down the hill over and over again until suppertime. Afterward we tumbled back outside to catch fireflies in jars at dusk until bedtime. Finally drifting off to sleep to a lullaby of crickets, katydids and the soft murmuring voices of family in the next room.