Saturday, July 26, 2014

Hot Butter Poppin Eggs
One of my best girlfriends, Roberta had a big family just like us (11 kids in hers and 8 in ours). Her Dad built a windmill on the edge of pond and Roberta and I would have "sleep outs" there on summer nights. It was probably a mile or two on foot from our houses to the pond. We'd trudge up the hill, hauling those big, unwieldy sleeping bags in the hot summer sun. Rather than go all the way around to the road that went into windmill pond, we'd climb a fence and make our way down the other side of the hill through the bushes and prickers. By the time we got to the pond we were a dusty, dirty mess with bloody scratches crisscrossing our scrawny legs and our hair (mine dirty blond, hers chestnut brown) plastered to the sides of our sweaty heads. Heaving the sleeping bags up onto the porch, we'd run down and throw ourselves off the end of the dock into the fresh, cool water. I was always careful not to touch bottom-it was muddy and silty and I'd heard snapping turtles would take your toe off if you weren't really careful. I remember watching the sun set and then the moon rise over the windmill. Listening to the wind in the trees I lay on my back and looked up at the inky black sky littered with thousands of glittery diamond-shaped stars before falling into a deep sleep.

On very special mornings we would wake up to popping sounds and find Roberta's mom squatting by the side of a campfire, frying eggs-hot butter popping-in a dented and battered skillet.

I found the photo of the boys on the internet-it really is the windmill on Leahy pond in Whitney Point. I don't know who the naked kids are, but what a great photo! Nothing like swimming in the buff when your a kid.

1 comment:

  1. Our pond back in 1965 was called Kachelka's (spelling?) pond and we swam exactly the same way those kids are swimming. No girls allowed.