Today is cloudy and damp and dark. The sky is whitish gray. It’s a drab day.

When I was a kid, everything was a toy. A flat rock was skimmed across the surface of the pond in a contest of sorts. Four was usually the winner. Big rocks were balancing boards, and we’d stand with our feet spaced and our arms straight out as we tilted faster and faster. Jumping from one huge rock to the other was a game at the beach leading to the end of the jetty where the ocean crashed.

Sticks came in all useful shapes and sizes. Some were swords, and we’d be Robin Hood and the Sheriff or any good guy and bad guy. We’d make swords sounds when the blades crashed against each other. A broken sword was total defeat. Other times, sticks were bats hitting at rocks while one of us called balls and strikes. Another stick was good at the swamp for dragging stuff out of the water. It had to be short, thick and strong. The one to use walking in the woods had to be tall and straight.

Bugs were the best fun. Catching grasshoppers from the field below my house was where I’d spend many summer hours. It was a wild field and only got rain water so its tall grass turned brown early, by mid-summer. The grass was alive with grasshoppers. I’d run, scaring them to jump, cup my hands and try to catch one in the air. When I did, I’d hold it in my hands and peek through to watch. Later, I’d let it go. Grasshoppers always left suspicious brown spots on my hands. Fireflies were a summer wonder. Their lights blinked all across the field. I’d use a jar with air holes poked in the top and trap one then I’d watch it through the sides of the jar as it miraculously lit a small piece of the darkness. I’d keep it only a while then I’d let my firefly go. I’d follow it with my eyes until I’d lost it in the field of fireflies.