On a small Ohio farm in the 1970’s, my cousins fixed Ford Mustangs in a musty old garage. A round blue transistor radio played a rock AM station while they worked and laughed and sometimes fought.
There was corn being grilled outside for dinner and bonfires burning bright on summer nights.
I shelled sweet peas in the yard with my great-grandmother and for every pea I’d throw into the bowl, three others were eaten.
There was long hair all around, a motorcycle buzzing and the James Gang playing softly in the background. There was a pool table in the basement and sometimes basketball was played on a tattered hoop.
The soft pillows on outdoor wicker had brown, orange and green squares.
A short time ago I walked into a dark, antique shop on a dusty city street and saw a radio gleaming on a shelf. Memories washed over me in huge, sheltering waves.