| Author: | Austin P. Torney | ISBN: | 9781465854469 |
| Publisher: | Austin P. Torney | Publication: | February 23, 2012 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition | Language: | English |
| Author: | Austin P. Torney |
| ISBN: | 9781465854469 |
| Publisher: | Austin P. Torney |
| Publication: | February 23, 2012 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition |
| Language: | English |
It’s about time for a major revision to the calendar, one that’s reflective of modern times, for the only improvements made during the last few hundred years have been to skip leap days in years that are evenly divisible by 400, and, more recently, to add a few insignificant leap-seconds once a year or so (”Wow, that seemed like a really long weekend!”).
…
I ran my hand along a picket fence, counting heartbeats and running like a child, still carefully not stepping on the cracks, noting the furrowed ants bustling, thriving, ,wondering at a old chestnut tree that had somehow survived the blight, towering and ever so gently tilting the walking plane, presenting me with more ancient notions: Of tire swings, swaying, hung from low branches, of a lemonade stand secure in the shade.
My youth came flooding back to me, into me, and so I continued to give it life: The back door of a bread wagon opened, releasing the fresh-baked aroma; mother came out with a handful of dimes, buying what would’ve taken three hours to bake. On the houses’ steps rested newspapers and the sturdy rounded bottles of milk, compliments of elsie the cow, truly a vision from the grazings of childhood. We played games on these walkways, like hopscotch, roller skating, and marbles. My bag of jewels: a cool green cat’s-eye, a big blue boulder, and varicolored pockmarked throwaways.
It’s about time for a major revision to the calendar, one that’s reflective of modern times, for the only improvements made during the last few hundred years have been to skip leap days in years that are evenly divisible by 400, and, more recently, to add a few insignificant leap-seconds once a year or so (”Wow, that seemed like a really long weekend!”).
…
I ran my hand along a picket fence, counting heartbeats and running like a child, still carefully not stepping on the cracks, noting the furrowed ants bustling, thriving, ,wondering at a old chestnut tree that had somehow survived the blight, towering and ever so gently tilting the walking plane, presenting me with more ancient notions: Of tire swings, swaying, hung from low branches, of a lemonade stand secure in the shade.
My youth came flooding back to me, into me, and so I continued to give it life: The back door of a bread wagon opened, releasing the fresh-baked aroma; mother came out with a handful of dimes, buying what would’ve taken three hours to bake. On the houses’ steps rested newspapers and the sturdy rounded bottles of milk, compliments of elsie the cow, truly a vision from the grazings of childhood. We played games on these walkways, like hopscotch, roller skating, and marbles. My bag of jewels: a cool green cat’s-eye, a big blue boulder, and varicolored pockmarked throwaways.
