Summer evening in the country; a pleasant time, even in this atomic age, even on the verge of a political campaign, after the day's work is over and the supper done and the family gathered on the lawn for that restful period before bedtime. For men, women and children it has been a busy day, in the hay field, the corn field, the strawberry patch, the cherry tree, and the garden, and the play area (which is the fenced yard for the littlest children and the whole farm for the school-agers). The son's family and the hired man's family have gone to their own homes and everything is quiet. And since this is such a momentous time, suppose we record for posterity the spirited discussion of vital topics that occurs in just one typical midwest family in June, less than a hundred miles from Chicago, where a vast amphitheater is being air-conditioned for the opening, in less than a month, of the first of the two big party conventions.
Here we are, the three of us, my husband, his father and myself, in comfortable lawn chairs near the lily pool. First there is a long period of silent meditation -- or at least there is silence. Then my husband, who has been staring somberly at the lively commotion among the lower life in the pool, remarks, "If a baby toad is a tadpole, would you call a baby frog a fradpole?"
Only vague and langid smiles greet this statement. It is not controversial. Meditation, or silence, proceeds. Then grandfather comes out with the gentle question, "That funeral at Sunbury. Do those folks bury at Ransom or at Odell?"
Here is a matter with two sides. My husband offers an opinion. "Odell, I think. It's closer. Or is it? To tell the truth, I don't know exactly how you get to Odell cross-country."
Grandfather contributes, "I went cross-country to Odell once, literally. We struck right out across the prairie. The folks were going over there to visit the William Strawns and took me along. I was pretty small, but I remember stopping on the way to gather gum from the rosin-weeds."
"For heaven's sake, what for?" inquires my husband. Maybe you think excitement is picking up, but the words are more violent than his tepid tone of voice; he is just making talk.
"Why, to chew, of course. That was long before the days of Spearmint!"
"Must have had an awful taste."
"No, it was good . . . The best way was to snap it off the tops of several and wait a while, and when you went back quite a lot of juice would have accumulated at the tops of the stalks. . . I even remember getting gum from ironweed. It would collect in little white drops on the back of the leaves."
"And what kind of flavor did that have?"
"I don't remember now, but we liked it."
At this point the subject of weed-juices seems drained dry.
Eventually my husband ventures on the subject of hay, with the remark that the new mown field smells good, and the additional gratuitous information that the yellow sweet clover is in full bloom in a lot of fields.
"That sweet clover!" exclaims grandfather. "We used to fight that like we do sourdock now. I remember a good many years ago a patch got started near the lane where I went for the cows every evening. I got to taking a spade with me each time and digging up some. When I got rid of that patch, it was a real satisfaction . . . And now look at the price we pay for a pound of the seed to start the stuff deliberately!"
The evening wears on into dusk. One by one the fireflies bestir themselves, trying out thier lights tentatively in the grass, then gradually rising into graceful flight. "How far that little firefly throws its light." This murmur comes from the one who likes best a paraphrase Shakespeare, and who up to this time has not uttered a word, although she is a member of the supposedly wordy sex. And as the fireflies rise higher and stray farther, her thoughts dart in and out over the years, remembering when the children used to chase the little creatures with happy shrieks, and how when the lightning bugs got out of their reach, it was time to herd the little folks to bed. Do they (the fireflies, that is) just keep on flying all night, higher and higher, flashing their little stern-lights on and off for hours -- or do their batteries run down? Never remember seeing any fireflies when getting home late at night. Sometimes we must make a point of just sitting and watching until we find out how high they go and how long they are active, and whether there is a time when you could watch them selttling down gracefully and gradually back into the grass, just as they rose, only in reverse, like a film run backward.
"But not tonight," she says aloud, and firmly, as she starts to the house. Either the men's thoughts have been following along in the same groove, which is most unlikely, or they just don't care, for there is no response at all. Eventually they, too, will wend their way to bed.
So goes the profound discussion of vital issues on just one farm, in this momentous time just before the big conventions, in this atomic age. Multiply this by hundreds and thousands, and what do you get? I don't know. There is probably some deep significance here, but it is beyond me. We leave it to you to figure out. If the Russians could hear all these multitudinous comments, they would know what makes America great. Or would they? And if they would, would they mind explaining it to us?
Anyway, whether the Russians have any conception of it or not, this is one of the happy times. Today we have been busy, but not too busy. We are tired but not too tired. It is hot but not too hot. Sleep will be wonderful when it comes. A good day. And good night. -- Hope.
Memory Gem
One thing I find children have
In common with a pup.
They are able to make a bigger mess
Than they are able to clean up.-- Aneta Ziegler