The Minnesota Farm Woman

The sounds of summer to me are the memories of summers spent at our cabin. After a day of swimming, berry picking and fishing, we would “take sauna” and crawl into bed, skin pink and scrubbed.  My sister slept on the top bunk and I was on the bottom, flashlight and Nancy Drew tucked in with me, as I often read late into the night.  I could hear my parents settling into the living room for the evening, my dad turning on the radio to listen to the Minnesota Twins. These were the days of Camilo Pascual, Tony Oliva, and Harmon Killebrew. I would whisper their names aloud, letting the foreign-sounding names roll across my tongue. Our cabin had no electricity and I could hear the hiss of the lantern and the murmur of my parents’ voices, trying not to disturb us.  I heard the distinctive sound of my dad opening a can of beer. There were no pop tops yet, and beer was opened with a can opener and gave two fizzy-sounding pops as each side the can was opened.  I wished I could have a swallow, as he often let me have the first foamy sip, but I had just brushed my teeth.  I didn’t much care for the sour taste of beer, but I had heard that drinking it would grow hair on one’s chest and I would have liked that.  As my sister’s breathing softened into sleep and Tony Oliva hit a line drive, I could hear but not see the lone mosquito buzzing around the room and knew that I would have to duck my head under the covers later to get away from the annoying sound. It was getting dark now, dark enough to see the fireflies outside my window and dark enough for my flashlight to illuminate the words of my book. It was summertime, and there was another warm day to look forward to tomorrow. Goodnight, Nancy Drew. Goodnight, Mom and Dad. Goodnight, Harmon Killebrew. Sweet dreams.