It all came back in seconds. The farm. My mother’s childhood home. Several miles west of Libau, MB. down one of those archetypal dusty country roads.
Sitting on the old-fashioned wooden swing with facing seats inside the yard. There with my cousin, pretending we were on a train or a bus, rocking back and forth from stop to stop, calling out imagined stations while eating fresh-picked peas from the bountiful garden on the other side of the driveway.
Today, 66 years later, we collected fresh-picked peas from my daughter’s yard–a large enough batch for fish dinner with garlic mashed potatoes. Before sup, opening a pod and savouring some small sweet peas. And the above memory reactivated itself by the taste and smell just like that–immediatement.
Then later, the meal and how the peas turned the other two items into a veritable mid-summer feast. A Wednesday to remember for sure.