The Native Iowan

I remember my youth. This time of year.  Where I sit. Ruckus neighborhood. The air filled with kid-sounds. Old traditions being remembered. The apple harvest. A cycle complete. The garden all but done. A frost last night. The end of season. This time of year. The work we considered drudgery. “Putting-Up”. I remember my youth.

I remember my youth. This year I revisit Autumn. The summer a memory. A distinct chill in the air. Follow the sun to stay warm. The smell of death. After such fertility. As the cold returns. My buddy Chris and I share a beer. Delightful local brews abound here. Temperatures drop. I remember my youth.

I remember my youth. A picnic table covered with tomatoes. The last picking. Many rotting. I was the little kid in the pack. The big kids started throwing rotten tomatoes at each other. I got terribly mauled by my ketchup-tossing siblings. It was great. I love the smell of tomatoes. I remember my youth.

I remember my youth. Granny’s drop-leaf table. Extended to its max. Covered by mason jars. Granny and mom steaming and preparing cartons of jars. The pickles, and tomatoes, and relishes. The jams and preserves. My favorite was apple-butter. A proper root-cellar, out-back when I was a kid. A basement, later on. I remember my youth.

I remember my youth. Cabbages were cut up and processed here today. Some 45 pounds of “slaw’ is on the ferment. The vegetables on the table here are Old-Fashioned. The traditions of old, remembered. Consult Google on the formula for slaw. My mother and grandmother simply knew. They had an Almanac. I remember my youth.

I remember my youth. The youth I am in. And I feel strangely youthful. The mountain air. The positive energy.  The Mountains. The Mountains. Strangely Youthful! Willis called it “middle-youth”. He don’t like being called middle-aged.  So in my middle-youth I revel in the senses. An unknown bird chirps near by. I remember my youth.

I remember my youth. The youth I am in. Being able to pursue foolish fancies. Riding motorcycles, Spending heaps of time with the pups. Now tramping around the mountains. The youth I am in does have aches and pains. I am a geriatric-in-training. I huff and puff. Mountains, not easily seduced. I remember my youth.

I remember my youth. Unlimited energy. Unlimited wind. Where does it go? How many years in the boardroom? The ivory tower. Flying high-class. Living large. And growing large. Becoming incapable. Oh, no! The elevator is broken. Must climb the stairs. Oh, no! Electric-carts you travel with. Don’t need to walk. I remember my youth.

I remember my youth.  In Missoula Montana. The mountains surround. The table where I sit covered by winter-squash. Green and orange. Curly-cue stems. Knobbled and knotted skin. They are the last harvest. A large yearling doe just jumped the fence. I started. She calmly nibbled and daintily sprang on. Amazing, amazing! I remember my youth.