Sometime in my childhood, my father bought a rustic cabin near the Conestoga Creek down at the bottom of our village. The cabin as I remember it, had one room and a porch, but the glory of it was the location. We would go down on holidays - and other weekend days too - and have a meal outdoors on the wobbly long wooden table and wooden benches. We'd bring lawn chairs and after some luscious meal - I mainly remember potato salad and chocolate cake! - the adults would sit and visit and the kids would clamber through the meadows and into the creek. Tall glorious trees shaded us from the summer's throbbing heat, and always the scent of meadow tea (mint) on the breeze. The cabin was less than a mile from our house, but in that change of scenery was a real change of pace. A break. A bit more air to breathe. Endless chores momentarily shelved.
Today is one of those days when I'd give a lot to hear the babble of the creek as it rushed along through the grove. Air-conditioning is great, but I miss the green cool smell of meadow.
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