Siri vs. Salamanders

I wake up thirsty and grab an asymmetric hunk of watermelon from the fridge. It’s cool sweetness relieves my thirst, first aid for my mouth. 

Along with the chilly pleasure of eating it, the bright color and angled surfaces of the piece of watermelon have cut through the stuffy warmth of this summer morning, Like an address that tells me where I would really like to be, instead of where I am, it plunges me into memories

of eating summer fruit with my father, 

of following my dog through the woods, 

playing hide and seek across three huge yards until well after dusk, 

skating endless circles on the neighbor’s paved driveway, 

swinging from tree to tree above the creek trying not to get my feet wet, without success. 

digging through soggy leaves to find salamanders and crayfish, 

constructing dams in hopes of attracting minnows and possibly beaver. 

building forts from scraps of lumber,

picking blackberries, strawberries and wild plums, 

and climbing a tree just to find a good spot to read. 

When my friends and I were doing these things, we were harassed by older generations with stories of hard work at a young age,

stories  of walking long distances to school, 

stories of having to earn every good thing that came their way, 

stories of no free rides. 

I find it ironic that my generation now harangues younger folks with tales of how we played. We pester them with lists of the advantages of unfettered free time, of open spaces and the family dog, land and trees. We brag about how we came up with plenty to do when we had no mechanical or electronic assistance, no planned play date or organized activity. 

I reach for another piece of watermelon.

I wonder whether I will live long enough to eavesdrop upon the next iteration of this intergenerational harping.

Suddenly I realize, like any kid since the invention of the ice box, I have been standing in front of the open refrigerator for too long and I push its door closed.