They told stories of a different time..a different way. How they used to sit in the shade of the old oak tree. How the late afternoon breezes cooled them. How there was nothing better than a pitcher of fresh squeezed lemons. On a hot summer day.
They told stories of women gathering..talking..sharing their lives - the good parts..and the bad.
They told of summers that were too hot and hazy and humid..and those that were cool and wet. But always - summers that were long..and languid..and lazy.
They told about a community that once was..that is no longer. Of children running bare-bottomed and free. Of villages that raised them.
Mostly ..they told stories about summers that - now with the wisdom and grace of age - they wished would never end.