Picture 2 skinny, knobby kneed, pony tailed girls, giggling in evening's hot summer air.
The town's oldsters referred to it as "Cabbage Hill," an area settled by the Polish community...and we lived at the very bottom of a dead end street in a one red light town.
We roamed almost anywhere, cheerfully promising to be home before dark, knowing more magic waited.
We played underneath tall cherry trees, limbs heavy with their fruit, waging battle with the scolding blue jays to see just who would get the cherries first. We gorged on wild raspberry bushes marking the boundary between our yard and the woods. Mulberries stained our hands and our clothes, much to Mom's dismay.
Bunnies nibbling on clover refused to be caught, but snapping turtles proved much easier to stalk...but always, always with a healthy respect for their powerful jaws.
Dandelions and buttercups covered a yard meant for children, not for display. Our voices echoed in the still night, "He loves me; he loves me not; he loves me...:
I don't think we ever had any particular love in mind; we simply picked off the petals, delighting in the rhythm of the words.
Evening brought the real magic...fire flies everywhere. Each of us clutching a jar, capped with a lid bearing "air holes," we ran everywhere, clutching glowing bits of magic. We wore them on our fingers, the finest "engagement" rings to be found anywhere!
Mom 's voice eventually beckoned us inside, urging us to let our magical friends fly free. Sometimes, we could convince her to let us keep them overnight, making sure to include some grass in the jars, thinking it a fine feast, indeed.
And, so we fell asleep, watching the tiny glowing insects in jars kept close by.