A Vivid Summer of Old

Overlooking the plains of a distant time, a city lies hidden behind the glory of another. It awaits my return to a summer gone far past Moldova’s hillocks. It began as the image of a brown-haired, five-year-old girl unfolds like a rug from my mind. Thinking back, I was a playful young spirit as a child; my thoughts were naive and always focused on the games and toys I seldom had. A summer of different setting was crystalline and fresh in my mind; I was ready to embark upon it. Young as I was, the reason for my temporary residence did not fail to dismiss my understanding. My mother’s and my relocation of home would take a summer full of responsibilities that one my age could not be a part of.

Upon arrival to Nana Frosea’s house, I did the immediate thing a child is eminent for doing: I observed and examined everything. The new smell of a prolonged spring and of a typical village house greeted me before my eyes eagerly opened to take in the sight of it all. The iron gates unbolted with a squeak to let my great-aunt and me in. I noticed the grapes that grew blissfully upon a parabola-shaped support that enclosed the greater area of the yard. So immersed was I with the inventiveness of the prop, that when a harsh bark from my right sounded, I shrieked. A black and shaggy dog with an expression of pure malice looked ready to lunge at me, iron chain and all. Nana Frosea chuckled and told me not to mind him; a fair share of barks greeted any stranger that happened to cross his path.

A quick and brisk summer was exampled for me in the next few months. Events blended easily, it seemed, as one became less prominent than the other. Every morning, I was lazily stretching in the bed of the guest room, excited for the new day, and ready for a full breakfast of bread, boiled egg, and tea. My great-uncle, I observed, was usually gone and from the precarious way he returned to the house, and the time of night, I could deduce the meaning of it. My breakfast was, therefore, solely witnessed by Nana Frosea and the conspicuous absence of my great-uncle. Afterwards, it was a day of exploration and adventure for me; my great-aunt had no time for such things, having the more important matters of dusting and cleaning. I, on my part, found small ventures with which to entertain myself. Sometimes I walked down a great road to the little candy stand run by an old woman. A leu (Moldavian money) was enough to buy me four minute sweets to enjoy on my walk back to the house.

One event, of all the ambiguous precedents before it, was fastened to my mind like a clock to a wall. My great-aunt, Nana Frosea, brought out two large crates filled with apricots up to the brim. At my perplexed look, she explained that we would be taking all the seeds out of the apricots and placing them to dry. As a reward, she continued, I would receive an abundant amount of dried seeds from the previous year to crack and eat. As odd as that may seem, I was excited to hear of the reward; I had tasted apricot seeds before, and their walnut flavor was enough to motivate me. As I opened each orange apricot, its juice ran richly and an aromatic scent unfolded from it. Gathering the shell-protected seed, I tossed it onto a growing pile, and the incomplete apricot onto another. The day passed in stories and laughs over the queerly pleasurable work and led to a cool afternoon. Finishing the last few apricots felt like an accomplishment to me; the hard-earned reward found its way into my hands within minutes. I was cracking and opening apricot seeds like an expert by the time the sun disappeared over the horizon. Complacent with the whole ordeal, I gathered the flavorful and soft seeds, ready to engulf them from my grown hungriness. Nana Frosea collected her own pile and together, we slowly ate our seeds, joking and smiling between bites.

No amount of events could ever take the place of my memories of that summer. The innocence and naivety shown through it are intermingled with the life of one in a different country; through these experiences, I retain the knowledge of certain individual values, ones that would take no human power to relieve me of. These memories also represent my everlasting connection with my great-aunt. A summer of plain events was enough to show me the importance of family and the bond that it can create, through the learning of moral values, placed in an area of such magnificent simplicity.