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by Ross Cavins

          A typical Summer Sunday in my childhood
          Seventy degrees and sunny, a puffy white cloud here and there.
          Afternoon softball games with relatives in the oversized front yard.
          Children and grown-ups play without perspiring,
          The aroma of honeysuckles strong and sweet in the warm air.
          Fun is everywhere.

          The newly cut thick green carpet of centipede grass spongy beneath our feet,
          The freshly oiled leather gloves soft in our hands,
          The crack of the bat and a friendly scream to run,
          A bright laughter dancing in everyone's eyes,
          Sweet tea with ice cubes and tart lemon wedges sweating in old jelly jar glasses.
          Afterwards, the charcoal is doused with lighter fluid from a squeezy metal can,
          Salad is tossed with store-bought iceberg lettuce, garden-grown juicy tomatoes,
          Julienne carrot strips, hot-tasting radishes, slivers of green and red bell peppers,
          Slices of vine-ripened cucumbers.

          Hamburger patties are lumpy, hand-made with Worcestershire sauce and ketchup and
          Onion soup mix and minced garlic.
          Placed on the grill when it's hot enough to sizzle,
          Grease-fed orange flames engulfing them with hisses of smoky flavor.
          The ice cream maker is plugged in and filled with milk and sugar and
          Vanilla extract and mashed bananas, surrounded by rock salt and ice and
          Running like a sputtering outboard motor.
          Buns are toasted with pats of real butter and salad is served with Hidden Valley Ranch.

          Lay's rippled potato chips, you know you can't have just one.

          Supper is eaten and enjoyed, the grown-ups relax and chat while the
          Children become restless again.
          There's unfathomable energy at that age, invincibility and eternity.
          Infinity of the moment.
          The sun drops below the treeline and
          Board games are pulled from the hall closet.
          George Jones and Conway Twitty and Tammy Wynette twang in the background.
          Laughter and timeless amusement replace the week's gossip.
          Jokes and witty quips and priceless memories.
          The games never become tiring and there is never enough time.
          We play until late when everyone leaves
          But my family and
          I sleep well that night.

          In my childhood, so long ago
          A fuzzy reality exists where the world is always good
          And the times are forever remembered
          With warmness and love.

Ross Cavins is 36, twice divorced and lives with his cat in the sunny South. Writing comes naturally because his cat is whiny and can't hold a decent conversation. Ross's current goal in life is to become a household name like Oreos, Liquid Drano and Tampax. He strives to be as famous a writer as Stephen Kingsley, his neighbor down the street who edits the obituaries column on Sundays.

Ross likes long walks in the woods (preferably with mosquito repellent and a crooked walking cane made from a broken branch). He adores oatmeal cream pies, is fascinated by cleavage, and is easily amused by kittens playing and traffic snarls. And more importantly, he is currently single, without an agent, a publisher or a significant other.

He has been published at
    * hackwriters.com - The Other Twin (Oct 2007), Fat Chance (Oct 2007).
    * swillmagazine.com - Sammy's Night Out (out by July 2008) Print Publication
    * hissquarterly.com - Have Fun Tonight (Feb 2008)
    * deadmule.com - Stealing Maw Maw's Pictures (Jan 2008)
    * buran.it - Fat Chance (Feb 2008) Translated to Italian!

Visit RossCavins.com and write Ross at me@rosscavins.com.


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